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THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

ROBERT    W.    CHAMBERS 


Novels  by  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 


THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

THE  LITTLE  RED  FOOT 

THE  SLAYER  OF  SOULS 

THE  CRIMSON  TIDE 

THE  LAUGHING  GIRL 

THE  RESTLESS  SEX 

BARBARIANS 

THE  DARK  STAR 

THE  GIRL  PHILIPPA 

WHO  GOES  THERE! 

ATHALIE 

THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE 

THE  GAY  REBELLION 

THE  STREETS  OF  ASCALON 

THE  COMMON  LAW 

THE  FIGHTING  CHANCE 

THE  YOUNGER  SET 

THE  DANGER  MARK 

THE  FIRING  LINE 

JAPONETTE 

QUICK  ACTION 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF 

A  MODEST  MAN 
ANNE'S  BRIDGE 
BETWEEN  FRIENDS 
THE  BETTER  MAN 
POLICE!!! 

SOME  LADIES  IN  HASTE 
IN  THE  QUARTER 
OUTSIDERS 


THE  TREE  OF  HEAVEN 

THE  MOONLIT  WAY 

IN  SECRET 

CARDIGAN 

THE  RECKONING 

THE  MAID-AT-ARMS 

AILSA  PAIGE 

SPECIAL  MESSENGER 

THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN 

LORRAINE 

MAIDS  OF  PARADISE 

ASHES  OF  EMPIRE 

THE  RED  REPUBLIC 

BLUE-BIRD  WEATHER 

A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  A 

HURRY 
THE  GREEN  MOUSE 
lOLE 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  CHOICE 
THE  CAMBRIC  MASK 
THE  MAKER  OF  MOONS 
THE  KING  IN  YELLOW 
IN  SEARCH  OF  THE 

UNKNOWN 
THE  TRACER  OF  LOST 

PERSONS 
THE  CONSPIRATORS 
A  KING  AND  A  FEW  DUKES 
THE  HIDDEN  CHILDREN 


THE 
FLAMING    JEWEL 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

AUTHOR  OF  "the  SLAYER  OF  SOULS,"  "THE  LITTLE 

RED    FOOT,"     "the     COMMON     LAW,"     "iN 

SECRET,"  "LORRAINE,"  ETC. 


NEW   ^%S^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY  GEORGE   H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


THE   FLAMING   JEWEL.     I 


PRINTED  IN   THE    UNITED   STATES,   OF   AMERICA 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 
R.  T.  HAINES-HALSEY 

WHO 

UNRESERVEDLY   BELIEVES 
EVERYTHING  I  WRITE 


To  R.  T. 


Three  Guests  at  dinner!     That's  the  life!- 
Wedgewood,  Revere,  and  Duncan  Phyfe! 

II 

You  sit  on  Duncan — when  you  dare, — 
And  out  of  Wedgewood,  using  care, 
With  Paul  Revere  you  eat  your  fare. 

Ill 

From  Paul  you  borrow  fork  and  knife 
To  wage  a  gastronomic  strife 
In  porringers;  and  platters  rare 
Of  blue  Historic  Willow-ware. 

IV 

Banquets  with  cymbal,  drum  and  fife. 
Or  rose-wreathed  feasts  with  riot  rife 
To  your  chaste  suppers  can't  compare. 


Let  those  deny  the  truth  who  dare! — 
Paul  Duncan,  Wedgewood!     That's  the  life! 
All  else  is  bunk  and  empty  air. 

ENVOI 

The  Cordon-bleu  has  set  the  pace 
With  Goulash,  Haggis,  Bouillabaisse, 
Curry,  Chop-suey,  Kous-Kous  Stew — 
I  can  not  offer  these  to  you, — 
Being  a  plain,  old-fashioned  cook, — 
So  pray  accept  this  scrambled  book. 


R.  W.  C. 


May,  1922 


; 


CONTENTS 


EPISODE   ONE 


Eve 


The  Ruling  Passion 


EPISODE   TWO 


episode  three 


On  Star  Peak 
A  Private  War 


EPISODE    FOUR 


EPISODE    FIVE 


Drowned  Valley 


The  Jewel  Aflame 


EPISODE    SIX 


EPISODE    SEVEN 


Clinch's  Dump 
Cup  AND  Lip  . 


EPISODE  eight 


episode  nine 
The  Forest  and  Mr.  Sard  . 

episode  ten 


The  Twilight  of  Mike  .... 

EPISODE    eleven 


The  Place  of  Pines 


EPISODE    twelve 

Her  Highness  Inter\tnes  . 


THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

ROBERT    W.    CHAMBERS 


THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 


Episode  One 
EVE 


TOURING  the  last  two  years  Fate,  Chance,  and  Destiny 
^^^  had  been  too  busy  to  attend  to  Mike  Clinch. 

But  now  his  turn  was  coming  in  the  Eternal  Sequence  of 
things.  The  stars  in  their  courses  indicated  the  beginning 
of  the  undoing  of  Mike  Clinch. 

From  Esthonia  a  refugee  Countess  wrote  to  James 
Darragh  in  New  York: 

" — After  two  years  we  have  discovered  that  it  was 
Jose  Quintana's  band  of  international  thieves  that  robbed 
Ricca.     Quintana  has  disappeared. 

"A  Levantine  diamond  broker  in  New  York,  named 
Emanuel  Sard,  may  be  in  communication  with  him. 

"Ricca  and  I  are  going  to  America  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Valentine." 

The  day  Darragh  received  the  letter  he  started  to  look 
up  Sard. 

But  that  very  morning  Sard  had  received  a  curious  letter 
from  Rotterdam.     This  was  the  letter : 

"Sardius  —  Tourmaline  —  Aragonite  —  Rhodonite  * 
Porphyry  —  Obsidian  —  Nugget  Gold  —  Diaspora  * 

9 


10  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

NovacuHte  *  Yu  *  Nugget  Silver  —  Amber  —  Matrix 
Turquoise  —  Elaeolite  *  Ivory  —  Sardonyx  *  Moonstone — 
Iceland  Spar  —  Kalpa  Zircon  —  Eye  Agate  *  Celonite — 
Lapis  —  lolite  —  Nephrite  —  Chalcedony  —  Hydrolite  * 
Hegolite  —  Amethyst  —  Selenite  *  Fire  Opal  —  Labra- 
dorite  —  Aquamarine  —  Malachite  —  Iris  Stone  —  Natro- 
lite  —  Garnet  *  Jade  —  Emerald  —  Wood  Opal  —  Es- 
sonite  —  Lazuli  *  Epidote  —  Ruby  —  Onyx  —  Sapphire 
— Indicolite  —  Topaz  —  Euclase  *  Indian  Diamond  * 
Star  Sapphire  —  African  Diamond  —  Iceland  Spar  — 
Lapis  Crucifer  *  Abalone  —  Turkish  Turquoise  *  Old 
Mine  Stone  —  Natrolite  —  Cats  Eye  —  Electrum  *  *  * 
Ks  a  a." 

That  afternoon  young  Darragh  located  Sard's  office  and 
presented  himself  as  a  customer.  The  weasel-faced  clerk 
behind  the  wicket  laid  a  pistol  handy  and  informed  Darragh 
that  Sard  was  away  on  a  business  trip. 

Darragh  looked  cautiously  around  the  small  office : 

"Can  anybody  hear  us?" 

"Nobody.     Why?" 

*T  have  important  news  concerning  Jose  Quintana," 
whispered  Darragh ;  "Where  is  Sard  ?" 

"Why,  he  had  a  letter  from  Quintana  this  very  morning," 
replied  the  clerk  in  a  low,  uneasy  voice.  "Mr.  Sard  left 
for  Albany  on  the  one  o'clock  train.     Is  there  any  trouble  ?" 

"Plenty,"  replied  Darragh  coolly;  "do  you  know  Quin- 
tana?" 

"No.     But  Mr.  Sard  expects  him  here  any  day  now." 

Darragh  leaned  closer  against  the  grille:  "Listen  very 
carefully;  if  a  man  comes  here  who  calls  himself  Jose 
Quintana,  turn  him  over  to  the  police  until  Mr.  Sard  re- 
turns. No  matter  what  he  tells  you,  turn  him  over  to  the 
police.     Do  you  understand?" 

"Who  are  you  ?"  demanded  the  worried  clerk.  "Are  you 
one  of  Quintana's  people?" 


EVE  11 

"Young  man,"  said  Darragh,  "I'm  close  enougn  to  Quin- 
tana  to  give  you  orders.  And  give  Sard  orders.  .  .  .  And 
Quintana,  too!" 

A  great  light  dawned  on  the  scared  clerk: 

*'You  are  Jose  Quintana!"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Darragh  bored  him  through  with  his  dark  stare : 

"Mind  your  business,"  he  said. 

That  night  in  Albany  Darragh  picked  up  Sard's  trail. 
It  led  to  a  dealer  in  automobiles.  Sard  had  bought  a  Comet 
Six,  paying  cash,  and  had  started  north. 

Through  Schenectady,  Fonda,  and  Mayfield,  the  follow- 
ing day,  Darragh  traced  a  brand  new  Comet  Six  containing 
one  short,  dark  Levantine  with  a  parrot  nose.  In  North- 
ville  Darragh  hired  a  Ford. 

At  Lake  Pleasant  Sard's  car  went  wrong.  Darragh 
missed  him  by  ten  minutes;  but  he  learned  that  Sard  had 
inquired  the  way  to  Ghost  Lake  Inn. 

That  was  sufficient.  Darragh  bought  an  axe,  drove  as 
far  as  Harrod's  Comers,  dismissed  the  Ford,  and  walked 
into  a  forest  entirely  familiar  to  him. 

He  emerged  in  half  an  hour  on  a  wood  road  two  miles 
farther  on.  Here  he  felled  a  tree  across  the  road  and  sat 
down  in  the  bushes  to  await  events. 

Toward  sunset,  hearing  a  car  coming,  he  tied  his  hand- 
kerchief over  his  face  below  the  eyes,  and  took  an  automatic 
from  his  pocket. 

Sard's  car  stopped  and  Sard  got  out  to  inspect  the  ob- 
struction, Darragh  sauntered  out  of  the  bushes,  poked  his 
pistol  against  Mr.  Sard's  fat  abdomen,  and  leisurely  and 
thoroughly  robbed  him. 


la  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

In  an  agreeable  spot  near  a  brook  Darragh  lighted  his 
pipe  and  sat  him  down  to  examine  the  booty  in  detail. 
Two  pistols,  a  stiletto,  and  a  blackjack  composed  the  arsenal 
of  Mr.  Sard.  A  large  wallet  disclosed  more  than  four 
thousand  dollars  in  Treasury  notes — something  to  reimburse 
Ricca  when  she  arrived,  he  thought. 

Among  Sard's  papers  he  discovered  a  cipher  letter  from 
Rotterdam — probably  from  Quintana.  Cipher  was  rather 
in  Darragh's  line.  All  ciphers  are  solved  by  similar  meth- 
ods, unless  the  key  is  contained  in  a  code  book  known  only 
to  sender  and  receiver. 

But  Quintana's  cipher  proved  to  be  only  an  easy  acrostic 
— the  very  simplest  of  secret  messages.  Within  an  hour 
Darragh  had  it  pencilled  out : 

Cipher 
"Take  notice: 

"Star  Pond,  N.  Y.  .  .  .  Name  is  Mike  Clinch.  .  .  . 
Has  Flaming  Jewel.  .  .  .  Erosite.  ...  I  sail  at  once. 

"Quintana." 

Having  served  in  Russia  as  an  officer  in  the  Military 
Intelligence  Department  attached  to  the  American  Expe- 
ditionary Forces,  Darragh  had  little  trouble-with  Quintana's 
letter.  Even  the  signature  was  not  difficult,  the  fraction  1/5 
was  easily  translated  Quint;  and  the  familiar  prescription 
symbol  a  a  spelled  ana;  which  gave  Quintana's  name  in  full. 

He  had  heard  of  Erosite  as  the  rarest  and  most  magnifi- 
cent of  all  gems.  Only  three  were  known.  The  young 
Duchess  Theodorica  of  Esthonia  had  possessed  one. 

Darragh  was  immensely  amused  to  find  that  the  chase 
after  Emanuel  Sard  should  have  led  him  to  the  very  borders 
of  the  great  Harrod  estate  in  the  Adirondacks. 


EVE  IS 

He  gathered  up  his  loot  and  walked  on  through  the 
splendid  forest  which  once  had  belonged  to  Henry  Harrod 
of  Boston,  and  which  now  was  the  property  of  Harrod's 
nephew,  James  Darragh. 

When  he  came  to  the  first  trespass  notice  he  stood  a 
moment  to  read  it.  Then,  slowly,  he  turned  and  looked 
toward  Clinch's.  An  autumn  sunset  flared  like  a  confla- 
gration through  the  pines.  There  was  a  glimmer  of  water, 
too,  where  Star  Pond  lay. 

Fate,  Chance,  and  Destiny  were  becoming  very  busy  with 
Mike  Clinch.  They  had  started  Quintana,  Sard,  and  Dar- 
ragh on  his  trail.  Now  they  stirred  up  the  sovereign  State 
of  New  York. 

That  lank  wolf.  Justice,  was  afoot  and  sniffing  uncom- 
fortably close  to  the  heels  of  Mike  Clinch. 

II 

Two  State  Troopers  drew  bridles  in  the  yellowing  October 
forest.  Their  smart  drab  uniforms  touched  with  purple 
blended  harmoniously  with  the  autumn  woods.  They  were 
as  inconspicuous  as  two  deer  in  the  dappled  shadow.  There 
was  a  sunny  clearing  just  ahead.  The  wood  road  they  had 
been  travelling  entered  it.     Beyond  lay  Star  Pond. 

Trooper  Lannis  said  to  Trooper  Stormont :  "That's  Mike 
Qinch's  clearing.  Our  man  may  be  there.  Now  we'll  see 
if  anybody  tips  him  off  this  time." 

Forest  and  clearing  were  very  still  in  the  sunshine. 
Nothing  stirred  save  gold  leaves  drifting  down,  and  a  hawk 
high  in  the  deep  blue  sky  turning  in  narrow  circles. 

Lannis  was  instructing  Stormont,  who  had  been  trans- 


14  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

ferred  from  the  Long  Island  Troop,  and  who  was  unac- 
quainted with  local  matters. 

Lannis  said :  "Clinch's  dump  stands  on  the  other  edge  of 
the  clearing.  Clinch  owns  five  hundred  acres  in  here.  He's 
a  rat." 

"Bad?" 

"Well,  he's  mean.  I  don't  know  how  bad  he  is.  But 
he  runs  a  rotten  dump.  The  forest  has  its  slums  as  well 
as  the  city.  This  is  the  Hell's  Kitchen  of  the  North 
Woods." 

Stormond  nodded. 

"All  the  scum  of  the  wilderness  gathers  here,"  went  on 
Lannis.  "Here's  where  half  the  trouble  in  the  North  Woods 
hatches.  We'll  eat  dinner  at  Clinch's.  His  stepdaughter 
is  a  peach." 

The  sturdy,  sun-browned  trooper  glanced  at  his  wrist 
watch,  stretched  his  legs  in  his  stirrups. 

"Jack,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  get  Clinch  right,  and  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  about  his  outfit  while  we  watch  this  road. 
It's  like  a  movie.  Clinch  plays  the  lead.  I'll  dope  out  the 
scenario   for  you " 

He  turned  sideways  in  his  saddle,  freeing  both  spurred 
heels  and  lolled  so,  constructing  a  cigarette  while  he  talked : 

"Way  back  around  1900  Mike  Clinch  was  a  guide — a 
decent  young  fellow  they  say.  He  guided  fishing  parties 
in  summer,  hunters  in  fall  and  winter.  He  made  money 
and  built  the  house.  The  people  he  guided  were  wealthy. 
He  made  a  lot  of  money  and  bought  land.  I  understand 
he  was  square  and  that  everybody  liked  him. 

"About  that  time  there  came  to  Clinch's  'hotel'  a  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Strayer.     They  were  'lungers.'     Strayer  seemed 


EVE  16 

to  be  a  gentleman;  his  wife  was  good  looking  and  rather 
common.  Both  were  very  young.  He  had  the  consump 
bad — the  galloping  variety.  He  didn't  last  long.  A  month 
after  he  died  his  young  wife  had  a  baby.  Clinch  married 
her.  She  also  died  the  same  year.  The  baby's  name  was 
Eve.  Clinch  became  quite  crazy  about  her  and  started  to 
make  a  lady  of  her.     That  was  his  mania." 

Lannis  leaned  from  his  saddle  and  carefully  dropped  his 
cigarette  end  into  a  puddle  of  rain  water.  Then  he  swung 
one  leg  over  and  sat  side  saddle. 

"Clinch  had  plenty  of  money  in  those  days,"  he  went  on. 
"He  could  afford  to  educate  the  child.  The  kid  had  a 
governess.  Then  he  sent  her  to  a  fancy  boarding  school. 
She  had  everything  a  young  girl  could  want. 

"She  developed  into  a  pretty  young  thing  at  fifteen.  .  .  . 
She's  eighteen  now — and  I  don't  know  what  to  call  her. 
She  pulled  a  gun  on  me  in  July." 
"What!" 

"Sure.     There  was  a  row  at  Qinch's  dump.     A  rum- 
runner called  Jake  Kloon  got  shot  up.     I  came  up  to  get 
Clinch.     He  was  sick-drunk  in  his  bunk.     When  I  broke 
in  the  door  Eve  Strayer  pulled  a  gun  on  me." 
"What  happened?"  inquired  Stormont. 
"Nothing.     I  took  Clinch.  .  .  .  But  he  got  off  as  usual." 
"Acquitted?" 

Lannis  nodded,  rolling  another  cigarette: 
"Now,  I'll  tell  you  how  Clinch  happened  to  go  wrong,'* 
he  said.  "You  see  he'd  always  made  his  living  by  guiding. 
Well,  some  years  ago  Henry  Harrod,  of  Boston,  came  here 
and  bought  thousands  and  thousands  of  acres  of  forest  all 
around  Clinch's "    Lannis  half  rose  on  one  stirrup  and, 


16  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

with  a  comprehensive  sweep  o£  his  muscular  arm,  ending  in 
a  flourish :  " — He  bought  everything  for  miles  and  miles. 
And  that  started  Clinch  down  hill.  Harrod  tried  to  force 
Clinch  to  sell.  The  millionaire  tactics  you  know.  He  was 
determined  to  oust  him.  Clinch  got  mad  and  wouldn't  sell 
at  any  price.  Harrod  kept  on  buying  all  around  Clinch  and 
posted  trespass  notices.  That  meant  ruin  to  Clinch.  He 
was  walled  in.  No  hunters  care  to  be  restricted.  Clinch's 
little  property  was  no  good.  Business  stopped.  His  step- 
daughter's education  became  expensive.  He  was  in  a  bad 
way.  Harrod  offered  him  a  big  price.  But  Clinch  turned 
ugly  and  wouldn't  budge.  And  that's  how  Clinch  began  to 
go  wrong." 

"Poor  devil,"  said  Stormont. 

"Devil,  all  right.  Poor,  too.  But  he  needed  money. 
He  was  crazy  to  make  a  lady  of  Eve  Strayer.  And  there 
are  ways  of  finding  money,  you  know." 

Stormont  nodded. 

"Well,  Clinch  found  money  in  those  ways.  The  Con- 
servation Commissioner  in  Albany  began  to  hear  about 
game  law  violations.  The  Revenue  people  heard  of  rum- 
running.  Clinch  lost  his  guide's  license.  But  nobody 
could  get  the  goods  on  him. 

"There  was  a  rough  backwoods  bunch  always  drifting 
about  Clinch's  place  in  those  days.  There  were  fights. 
And  not  so  many  miles  from  Clinch's  there  was  highway 
robbery  and  a  murder  or  two. 

"Then  the  war  came.  The  draft  caught  Clinch.  Malone 
exempted  him,  he  being  the  sole  support  of  his  stepchild. 

"But  the  girl  volunteered.  She  got  to  France,  somehow 
— scrubbed  in  a  hospital,  I  believe — anyway,  Clinch  wanted 


EVE  17 

to  be  on  the  same  side  of  the  world  she  was  on,  and  he 
went  with  a  Forestry  Regiment  and  cut  trees  for  railroad 
ties  in  southern  France  until  the  war  ended  and  they  sent 
him  home. 

"Eve  Stray er  came  back  too.  She's  there  now.  You'll 
see  her  at  dinner  time.  She  sticks  to  Clinch.  He's  a  rat. 
He's  up  against  the  dry  laws  and  the  game  laws.  Govern- 
ment enforcement  agents,  game  protectors,  State  Constabu- 
lary, all  keep  an  eye  on  Clinch.  Harrod's  trespass  signs 
fence  him  in.  He's  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  Yet  Clinch  makes 
money  at  law  breaking  and  nobody  can  catch  him  red- 
handed. 

"He  kills  Harrod's  deer.  That's  certain.  I  mean  Har- 
rod's nephew's  deer.  Harrod's  dead.  Darragh's  the  young 
nephew's  name.  He's  never  been  here — he  was  in  the  army 
— in  Russia — I  don't  know  what  became  of  him — but  he 
keeps  up  the  Harrod  preserve — game-wardens,  patrols, 
watchers,  trespass  signs  and  all." 

Lannis  finished  his  second  cigarette,  got  back  into  his 
stirrups  and,  gathering  bridle,  began  leisurely  to  divide  curb 
and  snaffle. 

"That's  the  layout.  Jack,"  he  said.  "Yonder  lies  the  Red 
Light  district  of  the  North  Woods.  Mike  Clinch  is  the 
brains  of  all  the  dirty  work  that  goes  on.  A  floating 
population  of  crooks  and  bums — game  violators,  boot- 
leggers, market  hunters,  pelt  'collectors,'  rum-runners,  hootch 
makers,  do  his  dirty  work — and  I  guess  there  are  some 
who'll  stick  you  up  by  starlight  for  a  quarter  and  others 
who'll  knock  your  block  off  for  a  dollar.  .  .  .  And  there's 
the  girl.  Eve  Strayer.  I  don't  get  her  at  all,  except  that 
she's  loyal  to  Clinch.  .  .  .  And  now  you  know  what  you 


18  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

ought  to  know  about  this  movie  called  'Hell  in  the  Woods,' 
And  it's  up  to  us  to  keep  a  calm,  impartial  eye  on  the  picture 
and  try  to  follow  the  plot  they're  acting  out — if  there  is 
any." 

Stormont  said:  'Thanks,  Bill;  I'm  posted.  .  .  .  And 
I'm  getting  hungry,  too." 

"I  believe,"  said  Lannis,  "that  you  want  to  see  that  girl." 
"I  do,"  returned  the  other,  laughing. 
"Well,  you'll  see  her.     She's  good  to  look  at.     But  I 
don't  get  her  at  all." 
"Why?" 

"Because  she  looks  right.  And  yet  she  lives  at  Clinch's 
with  him  and  his  bunch  of  bums.  Would  you  think  a 
straight  girl  could  stand  it?" 

"No  man  can  tell  what  a  straight  girl  can  stand." 
"Straight  or  crooked  she  stands  for  Mike  Clinch,"  said 
Lannis,  "and  he's  a  ratty  customer." 

"Maybe  the  girl  is  fond  of  him.     It's  natural." 
"I  guess  it's  that.     But  I  don't  see  how  any  young  girl 
can  stomach  the  life  at  Clinch's." 

"It's  a  wonder  what  a  decent  woman  will  stand,"  observed 
Stormont.  "Ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  all  wives  ought  to 
receive  the  D.  S.  O." 

"Do  you  think  we're  so  rotten?"  inquired  Lannis,  smiling. 
"Not  so  rotten.  No.  But  any  man  knows  what  men 
are.  And  it's  a  wonder  women  stick  to  us  when  they  learn." 
They  laughed.  Lannis  glanced  at  his  watch  again. 
"Well,"  lie  said,  "I  don't  believe  anybody  has  tipped  off 
our  man.     It's  noon.     Come  on  to  dinner.  Jack." 

They  cantered  forward  into  the  sunlit  clearing.  Star 
Pond  lay  ahead.     On  its  edge  stood  Clinch's. 


EVE  19 

III 

Clinch,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  came  out  on  the  veranda. 
He  had  little  light  grey  eyes,  close-clipped  grey  hair,  and 
was  clean  shaven. 

"How  are  you,  Clinch,"  inquired  Lannis  affably. 

"All  right,"  replied  Clinch ;  "you're  the  same,  I  hope." 

"Trooper  Stormont,  Mr.  Clinch,"  said  Lannis  in  his 
genial  way. 

"Pleased  to  know  you,"  said  Clinch,  level-eyed,  unstirring. 

The  troopers  dismounted.  Both  shook  hands  with  Clinch. 
Then  Lannis  led  the  wa}'-  to  the  barn. 

"We'll  eat  well,"  he  remarked  to  his  comrade.  "Clinch 
cooks." 

From  the  care  of  their  horses  they  went  to  a  pump  to 
wash.  One  or  two  rough  looking  men  slouched  out  of  the 
house  and  glanced  at  them. 

"Hallo,  Jake,"  said  Lannis  cheerily. 

Jake  Kloon  grunted  acknowledgment. 

Lannis  said  in  Stormont's  ear :  "Here  she  comes  with 
towels.     She's  pretty,  isn't  she?" 

A  young  girl  in  pink  gingham  advanced  toward  them 
across  the  patch  of  grass. 

Lannis  was  very'  polite  and  presented  Stormont.  The 
girl  handed  them  two  rough  towels,  glanced  at  Stormont 
again  after  the  introduction,  smiled  slightly. 

"Dinner  is  ready,"  she  said. 

They  dried  their  faces  and  followed  her  back  to  the 
house. 

It  was  an  unpainted  building,  partly  of  log.  In  the  dining 
room  half  a  dozen  men  waited  silently  for  food.  Lannis 
saluted  all,  named  his  comrade,  and  seated  himself. 


so  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

A  delicious  odour  of  johnny-cake  pervaded  the  room. 
Presently  Eve  Strayer  appeared  with  the  dinner. 

There  was  dew  on  her  pale  forehead — the  heat  of  the 
kitchen,  no  doubt.  The  girl's  thick,  lustrous  hair  was 
brownish  gold,  and  so  twisted  up  that  it  revealed  her  ears 
and  a  very  white  neck. 

When  she  brought  Stormont  his  dinner  he  caught  her 
eyes  a  moment — experienced  a  slight  shock  of  pleasure  at 
their  intense  blue — the  gentian-blue  of  the  summer  zenith 
at  midday, 

Lannis  remained  affable,  even  became  jocose  at  moments : 

"No  hootch  for  dinner,  Mike?    How's  that,  now?" 

"The  Boot-leg  Express  is  a  day  late,"  replied  Clinch,  with 
cold  humour. 

Around  the  table  ran  an  odd  sound — a  company  of  cata- 
mounts feeding  might  have  made  such  a  noise — if  cata- 
mounts ever  laugh. 

"How's  the  fur  market,  Jake?"  inquired  Lannis,  pouring 
gravy  over  his  mashed  potato. 

Kloon  quoted  prices  with  an  oath. 

A  mean-visaged  young  man  named  Leverett  complained 
of  the  price  of  traps. 

"What  do  you  care?"  inquired  Lannis  genially.  "The 
other  man  pays.  What  are  you  kicking  about,  anyway? 
It  wasn't  so  long  ago  that  muskrats  were  ten  cents." 

The  trooper's  good-humoured  intimation  that  Earl  Lev- 
erett took  fur  in  other  men's  traps  was  not  lost  on  the 
company.  Leverett's  fox  visage  reddened;  Jake  Kloon,  who 
had  only  one  eye,  glared  at  the  State  Trooper  but  said 
nothing. 

Clinch's  pale  gaze  met  the  trooper's  smiling  one :    "The 


EVE  21 

jays  and  squirrels  talk  too,"  he  said  slowly.  "It  don't  mean 
anything.     Only  the  show-down  counts." 

"You're  quite  right,  Clinch.  The  show-down  is  what 
we  pay  to  see.  But  talk  is  the  tune  the  orchestra  plays 
before  the  curtain  rises." 

Stormont  had  finished  dinner.  He  heard  a  low,  charm- 
ing voice  from  behind  his  chair: 

"Apple  pie,  lemon  pie,  maple  cake,  berry  roll." 

He  looked  up  into  two  gentian-blue  eyes. 

"Lemon  pie,  please,"  he  said,  blushing. 

When  dinner  was  over  and  the  bare  little  dining  room 
empty  except  for  Clinch  and  the  two  State  Troopers,  the 
former  folded  his  heavy,  powerful  hands  on  the  table's  edge 
and  turned  his  square  face  and  pale-eyed  gaze  on  Lannis. 

"Spit  it  out,"  he  said  in  a  passionless  voice. 

Lannis  crossed  one  knee  over  the  other,  lighted  a  ciga- 
rette : 

"Is  there  a  young  fellow  working  for  you  named  Hal 
Smith?" 

"No,"  said  Clinch. 

"Sure?" 

"Sure." 

"Clinch,"  continued  Lannis,  "have  you  heard  about  a 
stick-up  on  the  wood-road  out  of  Ghost  Lake?" 

"No." 

"Well,  a  wealthy  tourist  from  New  York — a  Mr.  Sard, 
stopping  at  Ghost  Lake  Inn — ^was  held  up  and  robbed  last 
Saturday  toward  sundown." 

"Never  heard  of  him,"  said  Clinch,  calmly. 


22  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"The  robber  took  four  thousand  dollars  in  bills  and  some 
private  papers  from  him." 

"It's  no  skin  off  my  shins,"  remarked  Clinch. 

"He's  laid  a  complaint." 

"Yes?" 

"Have  any  strangers  been  here  since  Saturday  evening?" 

"No." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"We  heard  you  had  a  new  man  named  Hal  Smith  working 
around  your  place." 

"No." 

"He  came  here  Saturday  night." 

"Who  says  so?" 

"A  guide  from  Ghost  Lake." 

"He's  a  liar." 

"You  know,"  said  Lannis,  "it  won't  do  you  any  good 
if  hold-up  men  can  hide  here  and  make  a  getaway." 

"G'wan  and  search,"  said  Clinch,  calmly. 

They  searched  the  "hotel"  from  garret  to  cellar.  They 
searched  the  bam,  boat-shed,  out-houses. 

While  this  was  going  on,  Clinch  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"Eve,"  he  said  coolly,  "the  State  Troopers  are  after  that 
fellow,  Hal  Smith,  who  came  here  Saturday  night.  Where 
is  he?" 

"He  went  into  Harrod's  to  get  us  a  deer,"  she  replied  in 
a  low  voice.     "What  has  he  done?" 

"Stuck  up  a  man  on  the  Ghost  Lake  road.  He  ought  to 
have  told  me.  Do  you  think  you  could  meet  up  with  him 
and  tip  him  off?" 

"He's  hunting  on  Owl  Marsh.     I'll  try." 


EVE  23 

"All  right.  Change  your  clothes  and  slip  out  the  back 
door.     And  look  out  for  Harrod's  patrols,  too." 

"All  right,  dad,"  she  said.  "If  I  have  to  be  out  to-night, 
don't  worry.     I'll  get  word  to  Smith  somehow." 

Half  an  hour  later  Lannis  and  Stormont  returned  from 
a  prowl  around  the  clearing.  Lannis  paid  the  reckoning; 
his  comrade  led  out  the  horses.     He  said  again  to  Lannis : 

"I'm  sure  it  was  the  girl.  She  wore  men's  clothes  and 
she  went  into  the  woods  on  a  run." 

As  they  started  to  ride  away,  Lannis  said  to  Clinch,  who 
stood  on  the  veranda: 

"It's  still  blue-jay  and  squirrel  talk  between  us,  Mike,  but 
the  show-down  is  sure  to  come.  Better  go  straight  while 
the  going's  good." 

"I  go  straight  enough  to  suit  me,"  said  Clinch. 

"But  it's  the  Government  that  is  to  be  suited,  Mike.  And 
if  it  gets  you  right  you'll  be  in  dutch." 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you,"  said  Clinch. 

About  three  o'clock  the  two  State  Troopers,  riding  at  a 
walk,  came  to  the  forks  of  the  Ghost  Lake  road. 

"Now,"  said  Lannis  to  Stormont,  "if  you  really  believe 
you  saw  the  girl  beat  it  out  of  the  back  door  and  take  to 

the  woods,   she's   probably   somewhere   in  there "   he 

pointed  into  the  western  forest.  "But,"  he  added,  "what's 
your  idea  in  following  her?" 

"She  wore  men's  clothes ;  she  was  in  a  hurry  and  trying 
to  keep  out  of  sight.  I  wondered  whether  Clinch  might 
have  sent  her  to  warn  this  hold-up  fellow." 

"That's  rather  a  long  shot,  isn't  it?" 


M  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Very  long.  I  could  go  in  and  look  about  a  bit,  if  you'll 
lead  my  horse." 

"All  right.  Take  your  bearings.  This  road  runs  west 
to  Ghost  Lake.  We  sleep  at  the  Inn  there — if  you  mean 
to  cross  the  woods  on  foot." 

Stormont  nodded,  consulted  his  map  and  compass,  pock- 
eted both,  unbuckled  his  spurs. 

When  he  was  ready  he  gave  his  bridle  to  Lannis. 

"I'd  just  like  to  see  what  she's  up  to,"  he  remarked. 

"All  right.  If  you  miss  me  come  to  the  Inn,"  said  Lan- 
nis, starting  on  with  the  led  horse. 

The  forest  was  open  amid  a  big  stand  of  white  pine 
and  hemlock,  and  Stormont  travelled  easily  and  swiftly. 
He  had  struck  a  line  by  compass  that  must  cross  the  direc- 
tion taken  by  Eve  Strayer  when  she  left  Clinch's.  But  it 
was  a  wild  chance  that  he  would  ever  run  across  her. 

And  probably  he  never  would  have  if  the  man  that  she 
was  looking  for  had  not  fired  a  shot  on  the  edge  of  that 
vast  maze  of  stream,  morass  and  dead  timber  called  Owl 
Marsh. 

Far  away  in  the  open  forest  Stormont  heard  the  shot  and 
turned  in  that  direction. 

But  Eve  already  was  very  near  when  the  young  man  who 
called  himself  Hal  Smith  fired  at  one  of  Harrod's  deer — 
a  three-prong  buck  on  the  edge  of  the  dead  water. 

Smith  had  drawn  and  dressed  the  buck  by  the  time  the 
girl  found  him. 

He  was  cleaning  up  when  she  arrived,  squatting  by  the 
water's  edge  when  he  heard  her  voice  across  the  swale : 


EVE  26 

"Smith!     The  State  Troopers  are  looking  for  you!" 

He  stood  up,  dried  his  hands  on  his  breeches.  The  girl 
picked  her  way  across  the  bog,  jumping  from  one  tussock 
to  the  next. 

When  she  told  him  what  had  happened  he  began  to  laugh. 

"Did  you  really  stick  up  this  man?"  she  asked  incredu- 
lously. 

"I'm  afraid  I  did,  Eve,"  he  replied,  still  laughing. 

The  girl's  entire  expression  altered. 

"So  that's  the  sort  you  are,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you 
different.     But  you're  all  a  rotten  lot " 

"Hold  on,"  he  interrupted,  "what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean  that  the  only  men  who  ever  come  to  Star  Pond 
are  crooks,"  she  retorted  bitterly.  "I  didn't  believe  you 
were.  You  look  decent.  But  you're  as  crooked  as  the 
rest  of  them — and  it  seems  as  if  I — I  couldn't  stand  it — 
any  longer " 

"n  you  think  me  so  rotten,  why  did  you  run  all  the  way 
from  Clinch's  to  warn  me?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"I  didn't  do  it  for  you;  I  did  it  for  my  father.  They'll 
jail  him  if  they  catch  him  hiding  you.  They've  got  it  in  for 
him.  If  they  put  him  in  prison  he'll  die.  He  couldn't  stand 
it.  I  know.  And  that's  why  I  came  to  find  you  and  tell 
you  to  clear  out " 

The  distant  crack  of  a  dry  stick  checked  her.  The  next 
instant  she  picked  up  his  rifle,  seized  his  arm,  and  fairly 
dragged  him  into  a  spruce  thicket. 

"Do  you  want  to  get  my  father  into  trouble!"  she  said 
fiercely. 

The  rocky  flank  of  Star  Peak  bordered  the  marsh  here. 

"Come  on,"  she  whispered,  jerking  him  along  through  the 


26  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

thicket  and  up  the  rocks  to  a  cleft — a  hole  in  the  sheer  rock 
overhung  by  shaggy  hemlock. 

"Get  in  there,"  she  said  breathlessly. 

"Whoever  comes,"  he  protested,  "will  see  the  buck  yon- 
der, and  will  certainly  look  in  here " 

"Not  if  I  go  down  there  and  take  your  medicine.  Creep 
into  that  cave  and  lie  down." 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  he  demanded,  interested 
and  amused. 

"If  it's  one  of  Harrod's  game-keepers,"  said  the  girl  drily, 
"it  only  means  a  summons  and  a  fine  for  me.  And  if  it's 
a  State  Trooper,  who  is  prowling  in  the  woods  yonder 
hunting  crooks,  he'll  find  nobody  here  but  a  trespasser. 
Keep  quiet.     I'll  stand  him  off." 

IV 

When  State  Trooper  Stormont  came  out  on  the  edge  of 
Owl  Marsh,  the  girl  was  kneeling  by  the  water,  washing 
deer  blood  from  her  slender,  sun-tanned  fingers. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  enquired,  looking  up 
over  her  shoulder  with  a  slight  smile. 

"Just  having  a  look  around,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "That's 
a  nice  fat  buck  you  have  there." 

"Yes,  he's  nice." 

"You  shot  him?"  asked  Stormont. 

"Who  else  do  you  suppose  shot  him?"  she  enquired,  smil- 
ingly. She  rinsed  her  fingers  again  and  stood  up,  swinging 
her  arms  to  dry  her  hands, — a  lithe,  grey-shirted  figure  in 
her  boyish  garments,  straight,  supple,  and  strong. 

"I  saw  you  hurrying  into  the  woods,"  said  Stormont. 

"Yes,  I  was  in  a  hurry.     We  need  meat." 


EVE  27 

"I  didn't  notice  that  you  carried  a  rifle  when  I  saw  you 
leave  the  house — by  the  back  door." 

"No;  it  was  in  the  woods,"  she  said  indifferently. 

"You  have  a  hiding  place  for  your  rifle?" 

"For  other  things,  also,"  she  said,  letting  her  eyes  of 
gentian-blue  rest  on  the  young  man. 

"You  seem  to  be  very  secretive." 

"Is  a  girl  more  so  than  a  man?"  she  asked  smilingly. 

Stormont  smiled  too,  then  became  grave. 

"Who  else  was  here  with  you?"  he  asked  quietly. 

She  seemed  surprised.    "Did  you  see  anybody  else?" 

He  hesitated,  flushed,  pointed  down  at  the  wet  sphagnum. 
Smith's  foot-prints  were  there  in  damning  contrast  to  her 
own.  Worse  than  that,  Smith's  pipe  lay  on  an  embedded 
log,  and  a  rubber  tobacco  pouch  beside  it. 

She  said  with  a  slight  catch  in  her  breath :  "It  seems  that 
somebody  has  been  here.  .  .  .  Some  hunter,  perhaps, — or 
a  game  warden.  .  .  ." 

"Or  Hal  Smith,"  said  Stormont. 

A  painful  colour  swept  the  girl's  face  and  throat.  The 
man,  sorry  for  her,  looked  away. 

After  a  silence :  "I  know  something  about  you,"  he  said 
gently.  "And  now  that  I've  seen  you — heard  you  speak — 
met  your  eyes — I  know  enough  about  you  to  form  an  opin- 
ion. ...  So  I  don't  ask  you  to  turn  informer.  But  the 
law  won't  stand  for  what  Clinch  is  doing — whatever  provo- 
cation he  has  had.  And  he  must  not  aid  or  abet  any  crimi- 
nal, or  harbour  any  malefactor." 

The  girl's  features  were  expressionless.  The  passive, 
sullen  beauty  of  her  troubled  the  trooper. 

"Trouble  for  Clinch  means  sorrow  for  you,"  he  said.    "I 


28  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

don't  want  you  to  be  unhappy.  I  bear  Clinch  no  ill  will. 
For  this  reason  I  ask  him,  and  I  ask  you  too,  to  stand  clear 
of  this  affair. 

"Hal  Smith  is  wanted.     I'm  here  to  take  him." 

As  she  said  nothing,  he  looked  down  at  the  foot-print  in 
the  sphagnum.  Then  his  eyes  moved  to  the  next  imprint; 
to  the  next.  Then  he  moved  slowly  along  the  water's  edge, 
tracking  the  course  of  the  man  he  was  following. 

The  girl  watched  him  in  silence  until  the  plain  trail  led 
him  to  the  spruce  thicket. 

"Don't  go  in  there!"  she  said  sharply,  with  an  odd 
tremor  in  her  voice. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  then  stepped  calmly  into 
the  thicket.  And  the  next  instant  she  was  among  the  spruces, 
too,  confronting  him  with  her  rifle. 

"Get  out  of  these  woods !"  she  said. 

He  looked  into  the  girl's  deathly  white  face. 

"Eve,"  he  said,  "it  will  go  hard  with  you  if  you  kill  me. 
I  don't  want  you  to  live  out  your  life  in  prison." 

"I  can't  help  it.  If  you  send  my  father  to  prison  he'll 
die.  I'd  rather  die  myself.  Let  us  alone,  I  tell  you!  The 
man  you're  after  is  nothing  to  us.  We  didn't  know  he  had 
stuck  up  anybody!" 

"If  he's  nothing  to  you,  why  do  you  point  that  rifle  at 
me?" 

"I  tell  you  he  is  nothing  to  us.  But  my  father  wouldn't 
betray  a  dog.  And  I  won't.  That's  all.  Now  get  out  of 
these  woods  and  come  back  to-morrow.  Nobody'Il  inter- 
fere with  you  then." 

Stormont  smiled:  "Eve,"  he  said,  "do  you  really  think 
me  as  yellow  as  that?" 


EVE  ^9 

Her  blue  eyes  flashed  a  terrible  warning,  but,  in  the  same 
instant,  he  had  caught  her  rifle,  twisting  it  out  of  her  grasp 
as  it  exploded. 

The  detonation  dazed  her ;  then,  as  he  flung  the  rifle  into 
the  water,  she  caught  him  by  neck  and  belt  and  flung  him 
bodily  into  the  spruces. 

But  she  fell  with  him ;  he  held  her  twisting  and  struggling 
with  all  her  superb  and  supple  strength;  staggered  to  his 
feet,  still  mastering  her;  and,  as  she  struggled,  sobbing, 
locked  hot  and  panting  in  his  arms,  he  snapped  a  pair  of 
handcuffs  on  her  wrists  and  flung  her  aside. 

She  fell  on  both  knees,  got  up,  shoulder  deep  in  spruce, 
blood  running  from  her  lip  over  her  chin. 

The  trooper  took  her  by  the  arm.  She  was  tremWing 
all  over.  He  took  a  thin  steel  chain  and  padlock  from  his 
pocket,  passed  the  links  around  her  steel-bound  wrists,  and 
fastened  her  to  a  young  birch  tree. 

Then,  drawing  his  pistol  from  its  holster,  he  went  swiftly 
forward  through  the  spruces. 

When  he  saw  the  cleft  in  the  rocky  flank  of  Star  Peak, 
he  walked  straight  to  the  black  hole  which  confronted  him. 

"Come  out  of  there,"  he  said  distinctly. 

After  a  few  seconds  Smith  came  out. 

"Good  God!"  said  Stormont  in  a  low  voice.  "What  are 
you  doing  here,  Darragh?" 

Darragh  came  close  and  rested  one  hand  on  Stormont's 
shoulder : 

"Don't  crab  my  game,  Stormont.  I  never  dreamed  you 
were  in  the  Constabulary  or  I'd  have  let  you  know." 

"Are  3;oi*  Hal  Smith?" 

"I  sure  am.     Where's  that  girl?' 


30  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Handcuffed  out  yonder." 

"Then  for  God's  sake  go  back  and  act  as  If  you  hadn't 
found  me.  Tell  Mayor  Chandler  that  I'm  after  bigger  game 
than  he  is." 

"Clinch?" 

"Stormont,  I'm  here  to  protect  Mike  Clinch.  Tell  the 
Mayor  not  to  touch  him.  The  men  I'm  after  are  going  to 
try  to  rob  him.  I  don't  want  them  to  because — well,  I'm 
going  to  rob  him  myself." 

Stormont  stared. 

"You  must  stand  by  me,"  said  Darragh.  "So  must  the 
Mayor.  He  knows  me  through  and  through.  Tell  him 
to  forget  that  hold-up.  I  stopped  that  man  Sard.  I  frisked 
him.    Tell  the  Mayor.    I'll  keep  in  touch  with  him." 

"Of  course,"  said  Stormont,  "that  settles  it." 

"Thanks,  old  chap.  Now  go  back  to  that  girl  and  let  her 
believe  that  you  never  found  me." 

A  slight  smile  touched  their  eyes.  Both  instinctively 
saluted.  Then  they  shook  hands ;  Darragh,  alias  Hal  Smith, 
went  back  into  the  hemlock-shaded  hole  in  the  rocks; 
Trooper  Stormont  walked  slowly  down  through  the  spruces. 

When  Eve  saw  him  returning  empty  handed,  something 
flashed  in  her  pallid  face  like  sunlight  across  snow. 

Stormont  passed  her,  went  to  the  water's  edge,  soaked 
a  spicy  handful  of  sphagnum  moss  in  the  icy  water,  came 
back  and  wiped  the  blood  from  her  face. 

The  girl  seemed  astounded;  her  face  surged  in  vivid 
colour  as  he  unlocked  the  handcuffs  and  pocketed  them  and 
the  little  steel  chain. 

Her  lip  was  bleeding  again.    He  washed  it  with  wet  moss. 


EVE  31 

took  a  clean  handkerchief  from  the  breast  of  his  tunic  and 
laid  it  against  her  mouth. 

"Hold  it  there,"  he  said. 

Mechanically  she  raised  her  hand  to  support  the  com- 
press. Stormont  went  back  to  the  shore,  recovered  her  rifle 
from  the  shallow  water,  and  returned  with  it. 

As  she  made  no  motion  to  take  it,  he  stood  it  against 
the  tree  to  which  he  had  tied  her.  ■ 

Then  he  came  close  to  her  where  she  stood  holding  his 
handkerchief  against  her  mouth  and  looking  at  him  out  of 
steady  eyes  as  deeply  blue  as  gentian  blossoms. 

"Eve,"  he  said,  "you  win.  But  you  won't  forgive  me. 
...  I  wish  we  could  be  friends,  some  day.  .  .  .  We  never 
can,  now.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

Neither  spoke  again.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  the  girl's  eyes 
filled;  and  Trooper  Stormont  caught  her  free  hand  and 
kissed  it; — kissed  it  again  and  again, — dropped  it  and  went 
striding  away  through  the  underbrush  which  was  now  all 
rosy  with  the  rays  of  sunset. 

After  he  had  disappeared,  the  girl,  Eve,  went  to  the  cleft 
in  the  rocks  above. 

"Come  out,"  she  said  contemptuously.  "It's  a  good  thing 
you  hid,  because  there  was  a  real  man  after  you;  and  God 
help  you  if  he  ever  finds  you!" 

Hal  Smith  came  out. 

"Pack  in  your  meat,"  said  the  girl  curtly,  and  flung  his 
rifle  across  her  shoulder. 

Through  the  ruddy  afterglow  she  led  the  way  homeward, 
a  man's  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  wounded  mouth,  her 


S2  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

eyes  preoccupied  with  the  strangest  thoughts  that  ever  had 
stirred  her  virgin  mind. 

Behind  her  walked  Darragh  with  his  load  of  venison  and 
his  alias, — and  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

Thus  began  the  preliminaries  toward  the  ultimate  un- 
doing of  Mike  Clinch.  Fate,  Chance,  and  Destiny  had  un- 
dertaken the  job  in  earnest. 


Episode  Two 
THE  RULING  PASSION 

I 

"^TOBODY  understood  how  Jose  Quintana  had  sHpped 
through  the  Secret  Service  net  spread  for  him  at 
every  port. 

The  United  States  authorities  did  not  know  why  Quin- 
tana had  come  to  America.  They  realised  merely  that  he 
arrived  for  no  good  purpose;  and  they  had  meant  to  arrest 
and  hold  him  for  extradition  if  requested;  for  deportation 
as  an  undesirable  alien  anyway. 

Only  two  men  in  America  knew  that  Quintana  had  come 
to  the  United  States  for  the  purpose  of  recovering  the 
famous  "Flaming  Jewel,"  stolen  by  him  from  the  Grand 
Duchess  Theodorica  of  Esthonia;  and  stolen  from  Quin- 
tana, in  turn,  by  a  private  soldier  in  an  American  Forestry 
Regiment,  on  leave  in  Paris.  This  soldier's  name,  prob- 
ably, was  Michael  Clinch. 

One  of  the  men  who  knew  why  Quintana  might  come  to 
America  was  James  Darragh,  recently  of  the  Military  In- 
telligence, but  now  passing  as  a  hold-up  man  under  the  name 
of  Hal  Smith,  and  actually  in  the  employment  of  Clinch  at 
his  disreputable  "hotel"  at  Star  Pond  in  the  North  Woods. 

The  other  man  who  knew  why  Quintana  had  come  to 

33 


34  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

America  was  Emanuel  Sard,  a  Levantine  diamond  broker 
of  New  York,  Quintana's  agent  in  America. 

Now,  as  the  October  days  passed  without  any  report  of 
Quintana's  detention,  Darragh,  known  as  Hal  Smith  at 
Clinch's  dump,  began  to  suspect  that  Quintana  had  already 
slid  into  America  through  the  meshes  of  the  police. 

If  so,  this  desperate  international  criminal  could  be  ex- 
pected at  Clinch's  under  some  guise  or  other,  piloted  thither 
by  Emanuel  Sard. 

So  Hal  Smith,  whose  duty  was  to  wash  dishes,  do  chores, 
and  also  to  supply  Clinch's  with  "mountain  beef" — or  deer 
taken  illegally — made  it  convenient  to  prowl  every  day  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  Ghost  Lake  road. 

He  was  perfectly  familiar  with  Emanuel  Sard's  squat 
features  and  parrot  nose,  having  robbed  Mr.  Sard  of  Quin- 
tana's cipher  and  of  $4,000  at  pistol  point.  And  one  morn- 
ing, while  roving  around  the  guide's  quarters  at  Ghost  Lake 
Inn,  Smith  beheld  Sard  himself  on  the  hotel  veranda,  in 
company  with  five  strangers  of  foreign  aspect. 

During  the  midday  dinner  Smith,  on  pretense  of  enquir- 
ing for  a  guide's  license,  got  a  look  at  the  Inn  ledger.  Sard's 
signature  was  on  it,  followed  by  the  names  of  Henri  Picquet, 
Nicolas  Salzar,  Victor  Georgiades,  Harry  Beck,  and  Jose 
Sanchez.  And  Smith  went  back  through  the  wilderness 
to  Star  Pond,  convinced  that  one  of  these  gentlemen  was 
Quintana,  and  the  remainder,  Quintana's  gang;  and  that 
they  were  here  to  do  murder  if  necessary  in  their  remorse- 
less quest  of  "The  Flaming  Jewel."  Two  million  dollars 
once  had  been  offered  for  the  Flaming  Jewel ;  and  had  been 
refused. 


THE  RULING  PASSION  S5 

Clinch  probably  possessed  it.  Smith  was  now  convinced 
of  that.  But  he  was  there  to  rob  Clinch  of  it  himself.  For 
he  had  promised  the  little  Grand  Duchess  to  help  recover 
her  Erosite  jewel;  and  now  that  he  had  finally  traced  its 
probable  possession  to  Clinch,  he  was  wondering  how  this 
recovery  was  to  be  accomplished. 

To  arrest  Clinch  meant  ruin  to  Eve  Strayer.  Besides 
he  knew  now  that  Clinch  would  die  in  prison  be foj^  reveal- 
ing the  hiding  place  of  the  Flaming  Jewel.  /  ^   .    ^n. 

Also,  how  could  it  be  proven  that  Clinch  had  the  Erosite 
gem?     The  cipher  from  Quintana  was  not  sufficieritxeVi?^^ 
dence.  -  ^ 

No ;  the  only  way  was  to  watch  Clinch,  prevent  any  rob- 
bery by  Quintana's  gang,  somehow  discover  where  the 
Flaming  Jewel  had  been  concealed,  take  it,  and  restore  it  to 
the  beggared  young  girl  whose  only  financial  resource  now 
lay  in  the  possible  recovery  of  this  almost  priceless  gem. 

Toward  evening  Hal  Smith  shot  two  deer  near  Owl 
Marsh.  To  poach  on  his  own  property  appealed  to  his  sense 
of  humour.  And  Clinch,  never  dreaming  that  Hal  Smith 
was  the  James  Darragh  who  had  inherited  Harrod's  vast 
preserve,  damned  all  millionaires  for  every  buck  brought  in, 
and  became  friendlier  to  Smith. 

II 

Clinch's  dump  was  the  disposal  plant  in  which  collected 
the  human  sewage  of  the  wilderness. 

It  being  Saturday,  the  scum  of  the  North  Woods  was 
gathering  at  the  Star  Pond  resort.  A  venison  and  chicken 
supper  was  promised — and  a  dance  if  any  wom.en  appeared. 

Jake  Kloon  had  run  in  some  Canadian  hooch;  Darragh, 


36  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

alias  Hal  Smith,  contributed  two  fat  deer  and  Clinch  cooked 
them.  By  ten  o'clock  that  morning  many  of  the  men  were 
growing  noisy;  some  were  already  drunk  by  noon.  Shortly 
after  midday  dinner  the  first  fight  started — extinguished 
only  after  Clinch  had  beaten  several  of  the  backwoods  aris- 
tocracy insensible. 

Towering  amid  the  wreck  of  battle,  his  light  grey  eyes 
a-glitter,  Clinch  dominated,  swinging  his  iron  fists. 

When  the  combat  ended  and  the  fallen  lay  starkly  where 
they  fell,  Clinch  said  in  his  pleasant,  level  voice : 

"Take  them  out  and  stick  their  heads  in  the  pond.  And 
don't  go  for  to  get  me  mad,  boys,  or  I'm  liable  to  act  up 
rough." 

They  bore  forth  the  sleepers  for  immersion  in  Star  Pond. 
Clinch  relighted  his  cigar  and  repeated  the  rulings  which 
had  caused  the  fracas : 

"You  gotta  play  square  cards  here  or  you  don't  play  none 
in  my  house.  No  living  thumb-nail  can  nick  no  cards  in 
my  place  and  get  away  with  it.  Three  kings  and  two  trays 
is  better  than  three  chickens  and  two  eggs.  If  you  don't 
like  it,  g'wan  home." 

He  went  out  in  his  shirt  sleeves  to  see  how  the  knock-outs 
were  reviving,  and  met  Hal  Smith  returning  from  the  pond, 
who  reported  progress  toward  consciousness.  They  walked 
back  to  the  "hotel"  together. 

"Say,  young  fella,"  said  Clinch  in  his  soft,  agreeable  way, 
"you  want  to  keep  your  eye  peeled  to-night." 

"Why?"  inquired  Smith. 

"Well,  there'll  be  a  lot  o'  folks  here.  There'll  be  stran- 
gers, too.  .  .  .  Don't  forget  the  State  Troopers  are  looking 
for  you." 


THE  RULING  PASSION  37 

"Do  the  State  Troopers  ever  play  detective  ?"  asked  Smith, 
smiling. 

"Sure.  They've  been  in  here  rigged  out  like  peddlers  and 
lumber- jacks  and  timber  lookers." 

"Did  they  ever  get  anything  on  you?" 

"Not  a  thing." 

"Can  you  always  spot  them,  Mike?" 

"No.  But  when  a  stranger  shows  up  here  who  don't 
know  nobody,  he  never  sees  nothing  and  he  don't  never 
learn  nothing.  He  gets  no  hootch  outa  me.  No,  nor  no 
craps  and  no  cards.  He  gets  his  supper;  that's  what  he 
gets  .  .  .  and  a  dance,  if  there's  ladies — and  if  any  girl 
favours  him.  That's  all  the  change  any  stranger  gets  out 
of  Mike  Clinch." 

They  had  paused  on  the  rough  veranda  in  the  hot  Octo- 
ber sunshine. 

"Mike,"  suggested  Smith  carelessly,  "wouldn't  it  pay 
you  better  to  go  straight?" 

Clinch's  small  grey  eyes,  which  had  been  roaming  over 
the  prospect  of  lake  and  forest,  focussed  on  Smith's  smiling 
features. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  be  out  of  a  job,"  remarked  Smith,  laughing,  "if  they 
ever  land  you." 

Clinch's  level  gaze  measured  him;  his  mind  was  busy 
measuring  him,  too. 

"Who  the  hell  are  you,  anyway?"  he  asked.  "/  don't 
know.  You  stick  up  a  man  on  the  Ghost  Lake  Road  and 
hide  out  here  when  the  State  Troopers  come  after  you. 
And  now  you  ask  me  if  it  pays  better  to  go  straight.  Why 
didn't  yoii  go  straight  if  you  think  it  pays?" 


38  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"I  haven't  got  a  daughter  to  worry  about,"  explained 
Smith.    "If  they  get  me  it  won't  hurt  anybody  else." 

A  dull  red  tinge  came  out  under  Clinch's  tan : 

"Who  asked  you  to  worry  about  Eve?" 

"She's  a  fine  girl :  that's  all." 

Clinch's  steely  glare  measured  the  young  man: 

"You  trying  to  make  up  to  her?"  he  enquired  gently. 

"No.     She  has  no  use  for  me." 

Clinch  reflected,  his  cold  tiger-gaze  still  fastened  on 
Smith. 

"You're  right,"  he  said  after  a  moment.  "Eve  is  a  good 
girl.     Some  day  I'll  make  a  lady  of  her." 

"She  is  one,  Clinch." 

At  that  Clinch  reddened  heavily — the  first  finer  emotion 
ever  betrayed  before  Smith.  He  did  not  say  anything  for 
a  few  moments,  but  his  grim  mouth  worked.     Finally : 

"I  guess  you  was  a  gentleman  once  before  you  went 
crooked,  Hal,"  he  said.  "You  act  up  like  you  once  was. 
.  .  .  Say ;  there's  only  one  thing  on  God's  earth  I  care  about. 
You've  guessed  it,  too."  He  was  off  again  upon  his  ruling 
passion. 

"Eve,"  nodded  Smith. 

"Sure.  She  isn't  my  flesh  and  blood.  But  it  seems  like 
she's  more,  even.  I  want  she  should  be  a  lady.  It's  all  I 
want.  That  damned  millionaire  Harrod  bust  me.  But  he 
couldn't  stop  me  giving  Eve  her  schooling.  And  now  all 
I'm  livin'  for  is  to  be  fixed  so's  to  give  her  money  to  go 
to  the  city  like  a  lady.  I  don't  care  how  I  make  money ;  all 
I  want  is  to  make  it.    And  I'm  a-going  to." 

Smith  nodded  again. 


THE  RULING  PASSION  3» 

Clinch,  now  obsessed  by  his  monomania,  went  on  with 
an  oath : 

"I  can't  make  no  money  on  the  level  after  what  Harrod 
done  to  me.  And  I  gotta  fix  up  Eve.  What  the  hell  do 
you  mean  by  asking  me  would  it  pay  me  to  travel  straight 
I  dunno." 

"I  was  only  thinking  of  Eve.  A  lady  isn't  supposed  to 
have  a  crook  for  a  father." 

Clinch's  grey  eyes  blazed  for  a  moment,  then  their  menac- 
ing glare  dulled,  died  out  into  wintry  fixity. 

"I  wan't  born  a  crook,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  got  no  choice. 
And  don't  worry,  young  fella;  they  ain't  a-going  to  get 
me. 

"You  can't  go  on  beating  the  game  forever.  Clinch." 

"I'm  beating  it "  he  hesitated — "and  it  won't  be  so 

long,  neither,  before  I  turn  over  enough  to  let  Eve  live  in 
the  city  like  any  lady,  with  her  autymobile  and  her  own 
butler  and  all  her  swell  friends,  in  a  big  house  like  she  is 
educated  for " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  as  a  procession  approached  from 
the  lake,  escorting  the  battered  gentry  who  now  were  able 
to  wabble  about  a  little. 

One  of  them,  a  fox-faced  trap  thief  named  Earl  Leverett, 
slunk  hastily  by  as  though  expecting  another  kick  from 
Clinch. 

"G'wan  inside,  Earl,  and  act  up  right,"  said  Clinch  pleas- 
antly. "You  oughter  have  more  sense  than  to  start  a  fight 
in  my  place — you  and  Sid  Hone  and  Harvey  Chase.  G'wan 
in  and  behave." 

He  and  Smith  followed  the  procession  of  damaged  ones 
into  the  house. 


40  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

The  big  unpainted  room  where  a  bar  had  once  been  was 
blue  with  cheap  cigar  smoke ;  the  air  reeked  with  the  stench 
of  beer  and  spirits.  A  score  or  more  shambHng  forest  louts 
in  their  dingy  Saturday  finery  were  gathered  there  playing 
cards,  shooting  craps,  lolling  around  tables  and  tilting  slop- 
ping glasses  at  one  another. 

Heavy  pleasantries  were  exchanged  with  the  victims  of 
Clinch's  ponderous  fists  as  they  re-entered  the  room  from 
which  they  had  been  borne  so  recently,  feet  first. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Clinch  kindly,  "act  up  like  swell  gents 
and  behave  friendly.  And  if  any  ladies  come  in  for  the 
chicken  supper,  why,  gol  dang  it,  we'll  have  a  dance ! 

Ill 

Toward  sundown  the  first  woodland  nymph  appeared — a 
half -shy,  half -bold,  willowy  thing  in  the  rosy  light  of  the 
clearing, 

Hal  Smith,  washing  glasses  and  dishes  on  the  back  porch 
for  Eve  Strayer  to  dry,  asked  who  the  rustic  beauty  might 
be. 

"Harvey  Chase's  sister,"  said  Eve.  "She  shouldn't  come 
here,  but  I  can't  keep  her  away  and  her  brother  doesn't  care. 
She's  only  a  child,  too." 

"Is  there  any  harm  in  a  chicken  supper  and  a  dance?" 

Eve  looked  gravely  at  young  Smith  without  replying. 

Other  girlish  shapes  loomed  in  the  evening  light.  Some 
were  met  by  gallants,  some  arrived  at  the  veranda  unes- 
corted. 

"Where  do  they  all  come  from?  Do  they  live  in  trees 
like  dryads?"  asked  Smith. 


THE  RULING  PASSION  41 

"There  are  always  squatters  in  the  woods,"  she  repHed 
indifferently. 

"Some  of  these  girls  come  from  Ghost  Lake,  I  suppose." 

"Yes;  waitresses  at  the  Inn." 

"What  music  is  there?" 

"Jim  Hastings  plays  a  fiddle.  I  play  the  melodeon  if  they 
need  me." 

"What  do  you  do  when  there's  a  fight?"  he  asked,  with 
a  side  glance  at  her  pure  profile. 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  do?     Fight,  too?" 

He  laughed — mirthlessly — conscious  always  of  his  secret 
pity  for  this  girl. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "when  your  father  makes  enough  to  quit, 
he'll  take  you  out  of  this.  It's  a  vile  hole  for  a  young 
girl " 

"See  here,"  she  said,  flushing;  "you're  rather  particular 
for  a  young  man  who  stuck  up  a  tourist  and  robbed  him  of 
four  thousand  dollars." 

"I'm  not  complaining  on  my  own  account,"  returned 
Smith,  laughing;  "Clinch's  suits  me." 

"Well,  don't  concern  yourself  on  my  account,  Hal  Smith. 
And  you'd  better  keep  out  of  the  dance,  too,  if  there  are  any 
strangers  there." 

"You  think  a  State  Trooper  may  happen  in?" 

"It's  likely.  A  lot  of  people  come  and  go.  We  don't  al- 
ways know  them."  She  opened  a  sliding  wooden  shutter 
and  looked  into  the  bar  room.  After  a  moment  she  beckoned 
him  to  her  side. 

"There  are  strangers  there  now,"  she  said,  " — that  thin, 
dark  man  who  looks  like  a  Kanuk.     And  those  two  men 


42  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

shaking  dice.  I  don't  know  who  they  are.  I  never  before 
saw  them." 

But  Smith  had  seen  them  at  Ghost  Lake  Inn.  One  of 
them  was  Sard.  Quintana's  gang  had  arrived  at  CHnch's 
dump. 

A  moment  later  CHnch  came  through  the  pantry  and 
kitchen  and  out  onto  the  rear  porch  where  Smith  was  wash- 
ing glasses  in  a  tub  filled  from  an  ever-flowing  spring. 

"I'm  a-going  to  get  supper,"  he  said  to  Eve.  "There'll 
be  twenty-three  plates."  And  to  Smith:  "Hal — you  help 
Eve  wait  on  the  table.  And  if  anybody  acts  up  rough  you 
slam  him  on  the  jaw — don't  argue,  don't  wait — just  slam 
him  good,  and  I'll  come  on  the  hop." 

"Who  are  the  strangers,  dad?"  asked  Eve. 

"Don't  nobody  know  'em  none,  girlie.  But  they  ain't 
State  Troopers.  They  talk  like  they  was  foreign.  One  of 
'em's  English — the  big,  bony  one  with  yellow  hair  and  mus- 
tache." 

"Did  they  give  any  names?"  asked  Smith. 

"You  bet.  The  stout,  dark  man  calls  himself  Hongri 
Picket.  French,  I  guess.  The  fat  beak  is  a  fella  named 
Sard.  Sanchez  is  the  guy  with  a  face  like  a  Canada  priest 
— Jose  Sanchez — or  something  on  that*style.  And  then  the 
yellow  skinned  young  man  is  Nicole  Salzar;  the  Britisher, 
Harry  Beck;  and  that  good  lookin'  dark  gent  with  a  little 
black  Charlie  Chaplin,  he's  Victor  Georgiades." 

"What  are  those  foreigners  doing  in  the  North  Woods, 
Clinch?"  enquired  Smith. 

"Oh,  they  all  give  the  same  spiel — hire  out  in  a  lumber 
camp.  But  they  ain't  no  lumberjacks,"  added  Clinch  con- 
temptuously.    "I  don't  know  what  they  be — hootch  runners 


THE  RULING  PASSION  48 

maybe — or  booze  bandits — or  they  done  something  crooked 
som'ers  r'other.     It's  safe  to  serve  'em  drinks." 

Qinch  himself  had  been  drinking.  He  always  drank  when 
preparing  to  cook. 

He  turned  and  went  into  the  kitchen  now,  rolling  up  his 
shirt  sleeves  and  relighting  his  clay  pipe. 

IV 

By  nine  o'clock  the  noisy  chicken  supper  had  ended;  the 
table  had  been  cleared;  Jim  Hastings  was  tuning  his  fiddle 
in  the  big  room ;  Eve  had  seated  herself  before  the  battered 
melodeon. 

"Ladies  and  gents,"  said  Clinch  in  his  clear,  pleasant  voice, 
which  carried  through  the  hubbub,  "we're  a-going  to  have 
a  dance — thanks  and  beholden  to  Jim  Hastings  and  my 
daughter  Eve.  Eve,  she  don't  drink  and  she  don't  dance, 
so  no  use  askin'  and  no  hard  feelin'  toward  nobody. 

"So  act  up  pleasant  to  one  and  all  and  have  a  good  time 
and  no  rough  stuff  in  no  form,  shape  or  manner,  but  behave 
like  gents  all  and  swell  dames,  like  you  was  to  a  swarry  on 
Fifth  Avenue.    Let's  go !" 

He  went  back  to  the  pantry,  taking  no  notice  of  the  cheer- 
ing. The  fiddler  scraped  a  fox  trot,  and  Eve's  melodeon 
joined  in.  A  vast  scuffling  of  heavily  shod  feet  filled  the 
momentary  silence,  accented  by  the  shrill  giggle  of  young 
girls. 

"They're  off,"  remarked  Clinch  to  Smith,  who  stood  at 
the  pantry  shelf  prepared  to  serve  whiskey  or  beer  upon 
previous  receipt  of  payment. 

In  the  event  of  a  sudden  raid,  the  arrangements  at  Clinch's 
were  quite  simple.     Two  large  drain  pipes  emerged  from 


44  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

the  kitchen  floor  beside  Smith,  and  ended  in  Star  Pond.  In 
case  of  alarm  the  tub  of  beer  was  poured  down  one  pipe; 
the  whiskey  down  the  other. 

Only  the  trout  in  Star  Pond  would  ever  sample  that  hootch 
again. 

Clinch,  now  slightly  intoxicated,  leaned  heavily  on  the 
pantry  shelf  beside  Smith,  adjusting  his  pistol  under  his 
suspenders. 

"Young  fella,"  he  said  in  his  agreeable  voice,  "you're 
dead  right.  You  sure  said  a  face-full  when  you  says  to  me, 
'Eve's  a  lady,  by  God !'  You  oughta  know.  You  was  a 
gentleman  yourself  once.  Even  if  you  take  to  stickin'  up 
tourists  you  know  a  lady  when  you  see  one.  And  you  called 
the  turn.  She  is  a  lady.  All  I'm  livin'  for  is  to  get  her  down 
to  the  city  and  give  her  money  to  live  like  a  lady.  I'll  do 
it  yet.  .  .  .  Soon !  ...  I'd  do  it  to-morrow — to-night — if 
I  dared.  ...  If  I  thought  it  sure  fire.  ...  If  I  was  dead 
certain  I  could  get  away  with  it.  .  .  .  I've  got  the  money. 
Now!  .  .  .  Only  it  ain't  in  money.  .  .  .  Smith?" 

"Yes,  Mike." 

"You  know  me  ?" 

"Sure." 

"You  size  me  up  ?" 

"I  do." 

"All  right.  If  you  ever  tell  anyone  I  got  money  that 
ain't  money  I'll  shoot  you  through  the  head." 

"Don't  worry.  Clinch." 

"I  ain't.  You're  a  crook ;  you  won't  talk.  You're  a  gen- 
tleman, too.  They  don't  sell  out  a  pal.  Say,  Hal,  there's 
only  one  fella  I  don't  want  to  meet." 

"Who's  that,  Mike?" 


THE  RULING  PASSION  45 

"Lemme  tell  you,"  continued  Clinch,  resting  more  heavily 
on  the  shelf  while  Smith,  looking  out  through  the  pantry 
shutter  at  the  dancing,  listened  intently. 

"When  I  was  in  France  in  a  Forestry  Rig'ment,"  went 
on  Clinch,  lowering  his  always  pleasant  voice,  "I  was  to 
Paris  on  leave  a  few  days  before  they  sent  us  home. 

"I  was  in  the  washroom  of  a  caffy — a-cleanin'  up  for  sup- 
per, when  dod-bang !  into  the  place  comes  a-tumblin'  a  man 
with  two  cops  pushing  and  kickin'  him. 

"They  didn't  see  me  in  there  for  they  locked  the  door  on 
the  man.  He  was  a  swell  gent,  too,  in  full  dress  and  silk 
hat  and  all  like  that,  and  a  opry  cloak  and  white  kid  gloves, 
and  mustache  and  French  beard. 

"When  they  locked  him  up  he  stood  stock  still  and  lit  a 
cigarette,  as  cool  as  ice.  Then  he  begun  walkin'  around 
looking  for  a  way  to  get  out ;  but  there  wasn't  no  way. 

"Then  he  seen  me  and  over  he  comes  and  talks  English 
right  away :  'Want  to  make  a  thousand  francs,  soldier  ?'  sez 
he  in  a  quick  whisper.  'You're  on,'  sez  I ;  'show  your  dough.' 
'Them  Flics  has  went  to  get  the  Commissaire  for  to  frisk 
me,'  sez  he.  'If  they  find  this  parcel  on  me  I  do  twenty 
years  in  Noumea.  Five  years  kills  anybody  out  there.' 
'What  do  you  want  I  should  do?'  sez  I,  havin'  no  love  for 
no  cops,  French  or  other.  'Take  this  packet  and  stick  it  in 
your  overcoat,'  sez  he.  'Go  to  13  roo  Quinze  Octobre  and 
give  it  to  the  concierge  for  Jose  Quintana.'  And  he  shoves 
the  packet  on  me  and  a  thousand- franc  note. 

"Then  he  grabs  me  sudden  and  pulls  open  my  collar.  God, 
he  was  strong. 

"  'What's  the  matter  with  you?'  says  I.     'Lemme  go  or 


46  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

I'll  mash  your  mug  flat.'  'Lemme  see  your  identification 
disc,'  he  barks. 

"Bein'  in  Paris  for  a  bat,  I  had  exchanged  with  my 
bunkie,  Bill  Hanson.  'Let  him  look,'  thinks  I ;  and  he  reads 
Bill's  check. 

"  *If  you  fool  me,'  says  he,  'I'll  folly  ye  and  I'll  do  you 
in  if  it  takes  the  rest  of  my  life.  You  understand?'  'Sure,' 
says  I,  me  tongue  in  me  cheek.  'Bong!  Allez  vous  en!' 
says  he. 

"  'How  the  hell,'  sez  I,  'do  I  get  out  of  here?'  'You're  a 
Yankee  soldier.  The  Flics  don't  know  you  were  in  here. 
You  go  and  kick  on  that  door  and  make  a  holler.' 

"So  I  done  it  good;  and  a  cop  opens  and  swears  at  me, 
but  when  he  sees  a  Yankee  soldier  was  locked  in  the  wash- 
room by  mistake,  he  lets  me  out,  you  bet." 

Clinch  smiled  a  thin  smile,  poured  out  three  fingers  of 
hooch. 

"What  else?"  asked  Smith  quietly. 

"Nothing  much.  I  didn't  go  to  no  roo  Quinze  Octobre. 
But  I  don't  never  want  to  see  that  fella  Quintana.  I've  been 
waiting  till  it's  safe  to  sell — what  was  in  that  packet." 

"Sell  what?" 

"What  was  in  that  packet,"  replied  Clinch  thickly. 

"What  was  in  it?" 

"Sparklers — since  you're  so  nosey." 

"Diamonds?" 

"And  then  some.  I  dunno  what  they're  called.  All  I 
know  is  I'll  croak  Quintana  if  he  even  turns  up  askin'  for 
'em.  He  frisked  somebody.  I  frisked  him.  I'll  kill  any- 
body who  tries  to  frisk  me." 

"Where  do  you  keep  them?"  enquired  Smith  naively. 


THE  RULING  PASSION  47 

Clinch  looked  at  him,  very  drunk :  "None  o'  your  dinged 
business,"  he  said  very  softly. 

The  dancing  had  become  boisterous  but  not  unseemly, 
although  all  the  men  had  been  drinking  too  freely. 

Smith  closed  the  pantry  bar  at  midnight,  by  direction  of 
Eve.  Now  he  came  out  into  the  ballroom  and  mixed  afifably 
with  the  company,  even  dancing  with  Harvey  Chase's  sister 
once — a  slender  hoyden,  all  flushed  and  dishevelled,  with  a 
tireless  mania  for  dancing  which  seemed  to  intoxicate  her. 

She  danced,  danced,  danced,  accepting  any  partner 
offered.  But  Smith's  skill  enraptured  her  and  she  refused 
to  let  him  go  when  her  beau,  a  late  arrival,  one  Charlie 
Berry,  slouched  up  to  claim  her. 

Smith,  always  trying  to  keep  Clinch  and  Quintana's  men 
in  view,  took  no  part  in  the  discussion;  but  Berry  thought 
he  was  detaining  Lily  Chase  and  pushed  him  aside. 

"Hold  on,  young  man!"  exclaimed  Smith  sharply.  "Keep 
your  hands  to  yourself.  If  your  girl  don't  want  to  dance 
with  you  she  doesn't  have  to." 

Some  of  Quintana's  gang  came  up  to  listen.  Berry  glared 
at  Smith. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "I  seen  you  before  somewhere.  Wasn't 
you  in  Russia?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Yes,  you  was.  You  was  an  officer!  What  you  doing 
at  Clinch's?" 

"What's  that?"  growled  Clinch,  shoving  his  way  for- 
ward and  shouldering  the  crowd  aside. 

"Who's  this  man,  Mike?"  demanded  Berry. 

"Well,  who  do  you  think  he  is?"  asked  Clinch  thickly. 


48  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"I  think  he's  gettin'  the  goods  on  you,  that's  what  I  think," 
yelled  Berry. 

"G'wan  home,  Charlie,"  returned  Clinch.  "G'wan,  all 
o'  you.  The  dance  is  over.  Go  peaceable,  every  one.  Stop 
that  fiddle!" 

The  music  ceased.  The  dance  was  ended ;  they  all  under- 
stood that ;  but  there  was  grumbling  and  demands  for  drinks. 

Clinch,  drunk  but  impassive,  herded  them  through  the 
door  out  into  the  starlight.  There  was  scuffling,  horse-play, 
but  no  fighting. 

The  big  Englishman,  Harry  Beck,  asked  for  accommoda- 
tions for  his  party  over  night. 

"Naw,"  said  Clinch,  "g'wan  back  to  the  Inn.  I  can't 
bother  with  you  folks  to-night."  And  as  the  others,  Salzar, 
Georgiades,  Picquet  and  Sanchez  gathered  about  to  insist, 
Clinch  pushed  them  all  out  of  doors  in  a  mass. 

"Get  the  hell  out  o'  here!"  he  growled;  and  slammed  the 
door. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  with  head  lowered,  drunk,  but 
apparently  capable  of  reflection.  Eve  came  from  the 
melodeon  and  laid  one  slim  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Go  to  bed,  girlie,"  he  said,  not  looking  at  her. 

"You  also,  dad." 

"No.  ...  I  got  business  with  Hal  Smith." 

Passing  Smith,  the  girl  whispered:  "You  look  out  for 
him  and  undress  him."^ 

Smith  nodded,  gravely  preoccupied  with  coming  events, 
and  nerving  himself  to  meet  them. 

He  had  no  gun.  Clinch's  big  automatic  bulged  under  his 
armpit. 

When  the  girl  had  ascended  the  creaking  stairs  and  her 


THE  RULING  PASSION  49 

door,  above,  closed,  Clinch  walked  unsteadily  to  the  door, 
opened  it,  fished  out  his  pistol. 

"Come  on  out,"  he  said  without  turning. 

"Where?"  enquired  Smith. 

Clinched  turned,  lifted  his  square  head;  and  the  deadly 
glare  in  his  eyes  left  Smith  silent. 

"Youcomin'?" 

"Sure,"  said  Smith  quietly. 

But  Clinch  gave  him  no  chance  to  close  in :  it  was  death 
even  to  swerve.  Smith  walked  slowly  out  into  the  starlight, 
ahead  of  Clinch — slowly  forward  in  the  luminous  darkness. 

"Keep  going,"  came  Clinch's  quiet  voice  behind  him.  And, 
after  they  had  entered  the  woods, — "Bear  to  the  right." 

Smith  knew  now.  The  low  woods  were  full  of  sink-holes. 
They  were  headed  for  the  nearest  one. 

On  the  edge  of  the  thing  they  halted.  Smith  turned  and 
faced  Clinch. 

"What's  the  idea?"  he  asked  without  a  quaver. 

"Was  you  in  Roosia?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  you  an  officer?" 

"I  was." 

"Then  you're  spyin'.     You're  a  cop." 

"You're  mistaken." 

"Ah,  don't  hand  me  none  like  that!  You're  a  State 
Trooper  or  a  Secret  Service  guy,  or  a  plain,  dirty  cop. 
And  I'm  a-going  to  croak  you." 

"I'm  not  in  any  service,  now." 

"Wasn't  you  an  army  officer  ?" 

"Yes.     Can't  an  officer  go  wrong?" 


50  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Soft  stuff.  Don't  feed  it  to  me.  I  told  you  too  much 
anyway.  I  was  babblin'  drunk.  I'm  drunk  now,  but  I 
got  sense.  D'you  think  I'll  run  chances  of  sittin'  in  State's 
Prison  for  the  next  ten  years  and  leave  Eve  out  here  alone? 
No.  I  gotta  shoot  you,  Smith,  And  I'm  a-going  to  do  it. 
G'wan  and  say  what  you  want  ...  if  you  think  there's 
some  kind  o'  god  you  can  square  before  you  croak." 

"If  you  go  to  the  chair  for  murder,  what  good  will  it  do 
Eve?"  asked  Smith.  His  lips  were  crackling  dry;  he 
moistened  them. 

"Sink  holes  don't  talk,"  said  Clinch.  "G'wan  and  square 
yourself,  if  you're  the  church  kind." 

"Clinch,"  said  Smith  unsteadily,  "if  you  kill  me  now 
you're  as  good  as  dead  yourself.     Quintana  is  here." 

"Say,  don't  hand  me  that,"  retorted  Clinch.  "Do  you 
square  yourself  or  no?" 

"I  tell  you  Quintana's  gang  were  at  the  dance  to-night — 
Picquet,  Salzar,  Georgiades,  Sard,  Beck,  Jose  Sanchez — the 
one  who  looks  like  a  French  priest.  Maybe  he  had  a  beard 
when  you  saw  him  in  that  cafe  wash-room " 

"What!"  shouted  Clinch  in  sudden  fury.  "What  yeh 
talkin'  about,  you  poor  dumb  dingo!  Yeh  fixin'  to  scare 
me?  What  do  you  know  about  Quintana?  Are  you  one 
of  Quintana's  gang,  too?  Is  that  what  you're  up  to,  hidin' 
out  at  Star  Pond.  Come  on,  now,  out  with  it!  I'll  have 
it  all  out  of  you  now,  Hal  Smith,  before  I  plug  you " 

He  came  lurching  forward,  swinging  his  heavy  pistol  as 
though  he  meant  to  brain  his  victim,  but  he  halted  after 
the  first  step  or  two  and  stood  there,  a  shadowy  bulk, 
growling,  enraged,  undecided. 

And,  as  Smith  looked  at  him,  two  shadows  detached  them- 


THE  RULING  PASSION  61 

selves  from  the  trees  behind  Clinch — silently — silently 
glided  behind — struck  in  utter  silence. 

Down  crashed  Clinch,  black-jacked,  his  face  in  the  ooze. 
His  pistol  flew  from  his  hand,  struck  Smith's  leg;  and 
Smith  had  it  at  the  same  instant  and  turned  it  like  lightning 
on  the  murderous  shadows. 

"Hands  up !  Quick !"  he  cried,  at  bay  now,  and  his  back 
to  the  sink-hole. 

Pistol  levelled,  he  bent  one  knee,  pushed  Clinch  over  on 
his  back,  lest  the  ooze  suffocate  him. 

"Now,"  he  said  coolly,  "what  do  you  bums  want  of  Mike 
Clinch?" 

"Who  are  you?"  came  a  sullen  voice.  "This  is  none  o' 
your  bloody  business.     We  want  Clinch,  not  you." 

"What  do  you  want  of  CHnch?" 

"Take  your  gun  off  us!" 

"Answer,  or  I'll  let  go  at  you.  What  do  you  want  of 
Clinch?" 

"Money.     What  do  you  think?" 

"You're  here  to  stick  up  Clinch?"  enquired  Smith. 

"Yes.     What's  that  to  you?" 

"What  has  Clinch  done  to  you?" 

"He  stuck  us  up,  that's  what!  Now,  are  you  going  to 
keep  out  of  this?" 

"No." 

"We  ain't  going  to  hurt  Clinch." 

"You  bet  you're  not.     Where's  the  rest  of  your  gang?" 

"What  gang?" 

"Quintana's,"  said  Smith,  laughing.  A  wild  exhilaration 
possessed  him.     His  flanks  and  rear  were  protected  by  the 


52  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

sink-hole.  He  had  Quintana's  gang — two  of  them — over 
his  pistol. 

"Turn  your  backs  and  sit  down,"  he  said.  As  the 
shadowy  forms  hesitated,  he  picked  up  a  stick  and  hurled  it 
at  them.  They  sat  down  hastily,  hands  up,  backs  toward 
him. 

"You'll  both  die  where  you  sit,"  remarked  Smith,  "if  you 
yell  for  help." 

Clinch  sighed  heavily,  stirred,  groped  on  the  damp  leaves 
with  his  hands. 

"I  say,"  began  the  voice  which  Smith  identified  as  Harry 
Beck's,  "if  you'll  come  in  with  us  on  this  it  will  pay  you, 
young  man." 

"No,"  drawled  Smith,  "I'll  go  it  alone." 

"It  can't  be  done,  old  dear.     You'll  see  if  you  try  it  on." 

"Who'll  stop  me?     Quintana?" 

"Come,"  urged  Beck,  "and  be  a  good  pal.  You  can't 
manage  it  alone.  We've  got  all  night  to  make  Clinch  talk. 
We  know  how,  too.     You'll  get  your  share " 

"Oh,  stow  it,"  said  Smith,  watching  Clinch,  who  was 
reviving.  He  sat  up  presently,  and  put  both  hands  over 
his  head.  Smith  touched  him  silently  on  the  shoulder  and 
he  turned  his  heavy,  square  head  in  a  dazed  way.  Blood 
striped  his  visage.  He  gazed  dully  at  Smith  for  a  little 
while,  then,  seeming  to  recollect,  the  old  glare  began  to 
light  his  pale  eyes. 

The  next  instant,  however.  Beck  spoke  again,  and  Qinch 
turned  in  astonishment  and  saw  the  two  figures  sitting  there 
with  backs  toward  Smith  and  hands  up. 

Clinch  stared  at  the  squatting  forms,  then  slowly  moved 
his  head  and  looked  at  Smith  and  his  levelled  pistol. 


THE  RULING  PASSION  Sa 

"We  know  how  to  make  a  man  squeal,"  said  Harry  Beck 
suddenly.  "He'll  talk.  We  can  make  Clinch  talk,  no  fear ! 
Leave  it  to  us,  old  pal.  Are  you  with  us?"  He  started 
to  look  around  over  his  shoulder  and  Smith  hurled  another 
stick  and  hit  him  in  the  face. 

"Quiet  there,  Harry,"  he  said.  "What's  my  share  if  I 
go  in  with  you?" 

"One  sixth,  same's  we  all  get." 

"What's  it  worth?"  asked  Smith,  with  a  motion  of  cau- 
tion toward  Chnch. 

"H  I  say  a  million  you'll  tell  me  I  lie.  But  it's  nearer 
three — or  you  can  have  my  share.     Is  it  a  go?" 

"You'll  not  hurt  Clinch  when  he  comes  to?" 

"We'll  make  him  talk,  that's  all.     It  may  hurt  him  some." 

"You  won't  kill  him?" 

"I  swear  by  God " 

"Wait!  Isn't  it  better  to  shoot  him  after  he  squeals? 
Here's  a  lovely  sink-hole  handy." 

"Ri2:ht-o !  We'll  make  him  talk  first  and  then  shove  him 
in.     Are  you  with  us?" 

"If  you  turn  your  head  I'll  blow  the  face  off  you,  Harry," 
said  Smith,  cautioning  Clinch  to  silence  with  a  gesture. 

"All  right.  Only  you  better  make  up  your  mind.  That 
cove  is  likely  to  wake  up  now  at  any  time,"  grumbled  Beck. 

Clinch  looked  at  Smith.  The  latter  smiled,  leaned  over, 
and  whispered: 

"Can  you  wall<  all  right?" 

Clinch  nodded. 

"Well,  we'd  better  beat  it.  Quintana's  whole  gang  is  in 
these  woods,  somewhere,  hunting  for  you,  and  they  might 
stumble  on  us  here,  at  any  moment."     And,  to  the  two  men 


54  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

in  front:  "Lie  down  flat  on  your  faces.  Don't  stir;  don't 
speak;  or  it's  you  for  the  sink-hole.  .  .  .  Lie  down,  I  tell 
you!     That's  it.     Don't  move  till  I  tell  you  to." 

Clinch  got  up  from  where  he  was  sitting,  cast  one  mur- 
derous glance  at  the  prostrate  forms,  then  followed  Smith, 
noiselessly,  over  the  stretch  of  sphagnum  moss. 

When  they  reached  the  house  they  saw  Eve  standing  on 
the  steps  in  her  night-dress  and  bare  feet,  holding  a  lantern. 

"Daddy,"  she  whimpered,  "I  was  frightened.  I  didn't 
know  where  you  had  gone " 

Clinch  put  his  arm  around  her,  turned  his  bloody  face 
and  looked  at  Smith. 

"It's  this"  he  said,  "that  I  ain't  forgetting,  young  fella. 
What  you  done  for  me  you  done  for  her. 

"I  gotta  live  to  make  a  lady  of  her.  That's  why,"  he 
added  thickly,  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Hal  Smith.  .  .  . 
Go  to  bed,  girlie " 

"You're  bleeding,  dad?" 

"Aw,  a  twig  scratched  me.  I  been  in  the  woods  with 
Hal.     G'wan  to  bed." 

He  went  to  the  sink  and  washed  his  face,  dried  it,  kissed 
the  girl,  and  gave  her  a  gentle  shove  toward  the  stairs. 

"Hal  and  I  is  sittin'  up  talkin'  business,"  he  remarked, 
bolting  the  door  and  all  the  shutters. 

When  the  girl  had  gone,  Clinch  went  to  a  closet  and 
brought  back  two  Winchester  rifles,  two  shot  guns,  and  a 
box  of  ammunition. 

"Goin'  to  see  it  out  with  me,  Hal?" 

"Sure,"  smiled  Smith. 


THE  RULING  PASSION  55 

"Aw'  right.     Have  a  drink?" 

"No." 

"Aw'  right.     Where'll  you  set?" 

"Anywhere." 

"Aw'  right.  Set  over  there.  They  may  try  the  back 
porch.  I'll  jest  set  here  a  spell,  n'then  I'll  kind  er  mosey 
'round.  .  .  .  Plug  the  first  fella  that  tries  a  shutter,  Hal." 

"You  bet." 

Qinch  came  over  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  said  a  face-full  that  time  when  you  says  to  me, 
'Clinch,'  you  says,  'Eve  is  a  lady.'  ...  I  gotta  fix  her  up. 
I  gotta  be  alive  to  do  it.  .  .  .  That's  why  I'm  greatly  obliged 
to  yeh,  Hal." 

He  took  his  rifle  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  pantry. 

"You  bet,"  he  muttered,  "she  is  a  lady,  so  help  me  God." 


Episode  Three 
ON   STAR  PEAK 


TV/TIKE  CLINCH  regarded  the  jewels  taken  from  Jose 
Quintana  as  legitimate  loot  acquired  in  war. 

He  was  prepared  to  kill  anybody  who  attempted  to  take 
the  gems  from  him. 

At  the  very  possibility  his  ruling  passion  blazed — his 
mania  to  make  of  Eve  Strayer  a  grand  lady. 

But  now,  what  he  had  feared  for  years  had  happened. 
Quintana  had  found  him, — Quintana,  after  all  these  years, 
had  discovered  the  identity  and  dwelling  place  of  the  obscure 
American  soldier  who  had  robbed  him  in  the  wash-room 
of  a  Paris  cafe.  And  Quintana  was  now  in  America,  here 
in  this  very  wilderness,  tracking  the  man  who  had  despoiled 
him. 

Clinch,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  carrying  a  rifle,  came  out  on 
the  log  veranda  and  sat  down  to  think  it  over. 

He  began  to  realise  that  he  was  likely  to  have  trouble 
with  a  man  as  cold-blooded  and  as  dogged  as  himself. 

Nor  did  he  doubt  that  those  with  Quintana  were  des- 
perate men. 

On  whom  could  he  count?  On  nobody  unless  he  paid 
their  hire.     None  among  the  lawless  men  who  haunted  his 

56 


ON  STAR  PEAK  67 

backwoods  "hotel"  at  Star  Pond  would  lift  a  finger  to  help 
him.  Almost  any  among  them  would  have  robbed  him, — 
murdered  him,  probably, — if  it  were  known  that  jewels  were 
hidden  in  the  house. 

He  could  not  trust  Jake  Kloon ;  Leverett  was  as  treacher- 
ous as  only  a  born  coward  can  be ;  Sid  Hone,  Harvey  Chase, 
Blommers,  Byron  Hastings, — he  knew  them  all  too  well  to 
trust  them, — a  sullen,  unscrupulous  pack,  partly  cowardly, 
always  fierce, — as  are  any  creatures  that  live  furtively,  feed 
only  by  their  wits,  and  slink  through  life  just  outside  the 
frontiers  of  law. 

And  yet,  one  of  this  gang  had  stood  by  him — Hal  Smith 
— the  man  he  himself  had  been  about  to  slay. 

Clinch  got  up  from  the  bench  where  he  had  been  sitting 
and  walked  down  to  the  pond  where  Hal  Smith  sat  cleaning 
trout. 

"Hal,"  he  said,  "I  been  figuring  some.  Quintana  don't 
dare  call  in  the  constables.  I  can't  afford  to.  Quintana 
and  I've  got  to  settle  this  on  our  own." 

Smith  slit  open  a  ten-inch  trout,  stripped  it,  flung  the 
entrails  out  into  the  pond,  soused  the  fish  in  water,  and 
threw  it  into  a  milk  pan. 

"Whose  jewels  were  they  in  the  beginning?"  he  en- 
quired carelessly. 

"How  do  I  know?" 

"If  you  ever  found  out " 

"I  don't  want  to.  I  got  them  in  the  war,  anyway.  And 
it  don't  make  no  difference  how  I  got  'em;  Eve's  going  to 
be  a  lady  if  I  go  to  the  chair  for  it.     So  that's  that." 

Smith  slit  another  trout,  gutted  it,  flung  away  the  viscera 
but  laid  back  the  roe. 


68  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Shame  to  take  them  in  October,"  he  remarked,  "but 
people  must  eat." 

"Same's  me,"  nodded  Clinch;  "I  don't  want  to  kill  no 
one,  but  Eve  she's  gotta  be  a  lady  and  ride  in  her  own 
automobile  with  the  proudest." 

"Does  Eve  know  about  the  jewels?" 

Clinch's  pale  eyes,  which  had  been  roving  over  the  wooded 
shores  of  Star  Pond,  reverted  to  Smith. 

"I'd  cut  my  throat  before  I'd  tell  her,"  he  said  softly. 

"She  wouldn't  stand  for  it?" 

"Hal,  when  you  said  to  me,  'Eve's  a  lady,  by  God!'  you 
swallered  the  hull  pie.  That's  the  answer.  A  lady  don't 
stand  for  what  you  and  I  don't  bother  about." 

"Suppose  she  learns  that  you  robbed  the  man  who  robbed 
somebody  else  of  these  jewels." 

Clinch's  pale  eyes  were  fixed  on  him :  "Only  you  and  me 
know,"  he  said  in  his  pleasant  voice. 

"Quintana  knows.     His  gang  knows." 

Clinch's  smile  was  terrifying.  "I  guess  she  ain't  never 
likely  to  know  nothing,  Hal." 

"What  do  you  purpose  to  do,  Mike?" 

"Still  hunt." 

"For  Quintana?" 

"I  might  mistake  him  for  a  deer.  Them  accidents  is 
likely,  too." 

"If  Quintana  catches  you  it  will  go  hard  with  you,  Mike." 

"Sure.     I  know." 

"He'll  torture  you  to  make  you  talk." 

"You  think  I'd  talk,  Hal?" 

Smith  looked  up  into  the  light-coloured  eyes.  The 
pupils  were  pin  points.     Then  he  went  on  cleaning  fish. 


ON  STAR  PEAK  69 

"Hal?" 

"What?" 

"If  they  get  me, — but  no  matter;  they  ain't  a-going  to 
get  me." 

"Were  you  going  to  tell  me  where  those  jewels  are  hid- 
den, Mike?"  enquired  the  young  man,  still  busy  with  his 
fish.  He  did  not  look  around  when  he  spoke.  Clinch's 
murderous  gaze  was  fastened  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"Don't  go  to  gettin'  too  damn  nosey,  Hal,"  he  said  in 
his  always  agreeable  voice. 

Smith  soused  all  the  fish  in  water  again :  "You'd  better 
tell  somebody  if  you  go  gunning  for  Quintana." 

"Did  I  ask  your  advice  ?" 

"You  did  not,"  said  the  young  man,  smiling. 

"All  right.     Mind  your  business." 

Smith  got  up  from  the  water's  edge  with  his  pan  of  trout : 

"That's  what  I  shall  do,  Mike,"  he  said,  laughing.  "So 
go  on  with  your  private  war;  it's  no  button  off  my  pants  if 
Quintana  gets  you." 

He  went  away  toward  the  ice-house  with  the  trout.  Eve 
Strayer,  doing  chamber  work,  watched  the  young  man  from 
an  upper  room. 

The  girl's  instinct  was  to  like  Smith, — but  that  very 
instinct  aroused  her  distrust.  What  w^as  a  man  of  his 
breeding  and  education  doing  at  Clinch's  dump  ?  Why  was 
he  content  to  hang  around  and  do  chores?  A  man  of  his 
type  who  has  gone  crooked  enough  to  stick  up  a  tourist  in 
an  automobile  nourishes  higher — though  probably  perverted 
— ambitions  than  a  dollar  a  day  and  board. 

She  heard  Clinch's  light  step  on  the  uncarpeted  stair; 


60  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

went  on  making  up  Smith's  bed;  and  smiled  as  her  step- 
father came  into  the  room,  still  carrying  his  rifle. 

He  had  something  else  in  his  hand,  too, — a  flat,  thin 
packet  wrapped  in  heavy  paper  and  sealed  all  over  with 
black  wax. 

"Girlie,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  should  do  a  little  errand 
for  me  this  morning.  If  you're  spry  it  won't  take  long — 
time  to  go  there  and  get  back  to  help  with  noon  dinner." 

"Very  well,  dad." 

"Go  git  your  pants  on,  girlie." 

"You  want  me  to  go  into  the  woods?" 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  the  hole  in  the  rocks  under  Star 
Peak  and  lay  this  packet  in  the  hootch  cache." 

She  nodded,  tucked  in  the  sheets,  smoothed  blanket  and 
pillow  with  deft  hands,  went  out  to  her  own  room.  Clinch 
seated  himself  and  turned  a  blank  face  to  the  window. 

It  was  a  sudden  decision.  He  realised  now  that  he 
couldn't  keep  the  jewels  in  his  house.  War  was  on  with 
Quintana.  The  "hotel"  would  be  the  goal  for  Ouintana 
and  his  gang.  And  for  Smith,  too,  if  ever  temptation  over- 
powered him.  The  house  was  liable  to  an  attempt  at  rob- 
bery any  night,  now ; — any  day,  perhaps.  It  was  no  place 
for  the  packet  he  had  taken  from  Jose  Quintana. 

Eve  came  in  wearing  grey  shirt,  breeches,  and  puttees. 
Clinch  gave  her  the  packet. 

"What's  in  it,  dad?"  she  asked  smilingly. 

"Don't  you  get  nosey,  girlie.     Come  here." 

She  went  tO'  him.     He  put  his  left  arm  around  her. 

"You  like  me  some,  don't  you,  girlie?" 

"You  know  it,  dad." 

"All  right.    You're  all  that  matters  to  me  .  .  .  since  your 


ON  STAR  PEAK  61 

mother  went  and  died  .  .  .  after  a  year.  .  .  .  That  was 
crool,  girlie.  Only  a  year.  Well,  I  ain't  cared  none  for 
nobody  since — only  you,  girlie." 

He  touched  the  packet  with  his  forefinger: 

"If  I  step  out,  that's  yours.  But  I  ain't  a-going  to  step 
out.  Put  it  with  the  hootch.  You  know  how  to  move  that 
keystone?" 

"Yes,  dad." 

"And  watch  out  that  no  game  protector  and  none  of  that 
damn  millionaire's  wardens  see  you  in  the  woods.  No,  nor 
none  o'  these  here  fancy  State  Troopers.  You  gotta  watch 
out  this  time,  Eve.  It  means  everything  to  us — to  you, 
girlie — and  to  me.  Go  tip-toe.  Lay  low,  coming  and 
going.     Take  a  rifle." 

Eve  ran  to  her  bed-room  and  returned  with  her  Win- 
chester and  belt. 

"You  shoot  to  kill,"  said  Clinch  grimly,  "if  anyone  wants 
to  stop  you.  But  lay  low  and  you  won't  need  to  shoot 
nobody,  girlie.  G'wan  out  the  back  way;  Hal's  in  the  ice 
house." 

n 

Slim  and  straight  as  a  young  boy  in  her  grey  shirt  and 
breeches.  Eve  continued  on  lightly  through  the  woods,  her 
rifle  over  her  shoulder,  her  eyes  of  gentian-blue  always 
alert. 

The  morning  turned  warm;  she  pulled  off  her  soft  felt 
hat,  shook  out  her  clipped  curls,  stripped  open  the  shirt  at 
her  snowy  throat  where  sweat  glimmered  like  melted  frost. 

The  forest  was  lovely  in  the  morning  sunlight — lovely 
and  still — save   for  the  blue- jays — for  the  summer  birds 


62  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

had  gone  and  only  birds  destined  to  a  long  Northern  winter 
remained. 

Now  and  then,  ahead  of  her,  she  saw  a  ruffed  grouse 
wandering  in  the  trail.  These,  and  a  single  tiny  grey  bird 
with  a  dreary  note  interminably  repeated,  were  the  only 
living  things  she  saw  except  here  and  there  a  summer- 
battered  butterfly  of  the  Vanessa  tribe  flitting  in  some  stray 
sunbeam. 

The  haunting  odour  of  late  autumn  was  in  the  air — ■ 
delicately  acrid — the  scent  of  frost-killed  brake  and  ripening 
wild  grasses,  of  brilliant  dead  leaves  and  black  forest  loam 
pungent  with  mast  from  beech  and  oak. 

Eve's  tread  was  light  on  the  moist  trail;  her  quick  eyes 
missed  nothing — not  the  dainty  imprint  of  deer,  fresh  made, 
nor  the  sprawling  insignia  of  rambling  raccoons — nor  the 
big  barred  owl  huddled  on  a  pine  limb  overhead,  nor,  where 
the  swift  gravelly  reaches  of  the  brook  caught  sunlight,  did 
she  miss  the  swirl  and  furrowing  and  milling  of  painted 
trout  on  the  spawning  beds. 

Once  she  took  cover,  hearing  something  stirring;  but  it 
was  only  a  yearling  buck  that  came  out  of  the  witch-hazel 
to  stare,  stamp,  then  wheel  and  trot  away,  displaying  the 
danger  signal. 

In  her  cartridge-pouch  she  carried  the  flat,  sealed  packet 
which  Clinch  had  trusted  to  her.  The  sack  swayed  gently 
as  she  strode  on,  slapping  her  left  hip  at  every  step;  and 
always  her  subconscious  mind  remained  on  guard  and  aware 
of  it;  and  now  and  then  she  dropped  her  hand  to  feel  of 
the  pouch  and  strap. 

The  character  of  the  forest  was  now  changing  as  she 
advanced.     The    first    tamaracks    appeared,    slim,    silvery 


ON  STAR  PEAK  63 

trunks,  crowned  with  the  gold  of  autumn  foliage,  outer 
sentinels  of  that  vast  maze  of  swamp  and  stream  called 
Owl  Marsh,  the  stronghold  and  refuge  of  forest  wild  things 
— sometimes  the  sanctuary  of  hunted  men. 

From  Star  Peak's  left  flank  an  icy  stream  clatters  down 
to  the  level  floor  of  the  woods,  here;  and  it  was  here  that 
Eve  had  meant  to  quench  her  thirst  with  a  mouthful  of 
sweet  water. 

But  as  she  approached  the  tiny  ford,  warily,  she  saw  a 
saddled  horse  tied  to  a  sapling  and  a  man  seated  on  a  mossy 
log. 

The  trappings  of  horse,  the  grey-green  uniform  of  the 
man,  left  no  room  for  speculation;  a  trooper  of  the  Stat^ 
Constabulary  was  seated  there. 

His  cap  was  off ;  his  head  rested  on  his  palm.  Elbow  on 
knee,  he  sat  there  gazing  at  the  water — watching  the  slim 
fish,  perhaps,  darting  up  stream  toward  their  bridal-beds 
hidden  far  away  at  the  headwaters. 

A  detour  was  imperative.  The  girl,  from  the  shelter  of 
a  pine,  looked  out  cautiously  at  the  trooper.  The  sudden 
sight  of  him  had  merely  checked  her;  now  the  recognition 
of  his  uniform  startled  her  heart  out  of  its  tranquil  rhythm 
and  set  the  blood  burning  in  her  cheeks. 

There  was  a  memory  of  such  a  man  seared  into  the  girl's 
very  soul ; — a  man  whose  head  and  shoulders  resembled  this 
man's, — who  had  the  same  bright  hair,  the  same  slim  and 
powerful  body, — ^and  who  moved,  too,  as  this  young  man 
moved. 

The  trooper  stirred,  lifted  his  head  to  relight  his  pipe. 

The  girl  knew  him.  Her  heart  stood  still ;  then  heart  and 
blood  ran  riot  and  she  felt  her  knees  tremble, — felt  weak  as 


64  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

she  rested  against  the  pine's  huge  trunk  and  covered  her  face 
with  unsteady  fingers. 

Until  the  moment,  Eve  had  never  dreamed  what  the 
memory  of  this  man  really  meant  to  her, — never  dreamed 
that  she  had  capacity  for  emotion  so  utterly  overwhelming. 

Even  now  confusion,  shame,  fear  were  paramount.  All 
she  wanted  was  to  get  away, — get  away  and  still  her  heart's 
wild  beating, — control  the  strange  tremor  that  possessed  her, 
recover  mind  and  sense  and  breath. 

She  drew  her  hand  from  her  eyes  and  looked  upon  the 
man  she  had  attempted  to  kill, — upon  the  young  man  who 
had  wrestled  her  off  her  feet  and  handcuffed  her, — and  who 
had  bathed  her  bleeding  mouth  with  sphagnum, — and  who 
had  kissed  her  hands 

She  was  trembling  so  that  she  became  frightened.  The 
racket  of  the  brook  in  his  ears  safeguarded  her  in  a  measure. 
She.  bent  over  nearly  double,  her  rifle  at  a  trail,  and 
cautiously  began  the  detour. 

When  at  length  the  wide  circle  through  the  woods  had 
been  safely  accomplished  and  Eve  was  moving  out  through 
the  thickening  ranks  of  tamarack,  her  heart,  which  seemed 
to  suffocate  her,  quieted;  and  she  leaned  against  a  shoulder 
of  rock,  strangely  tired. 

After  a  while  she  drew  from  her  pocket  his  handkerchief, 
and  looked  at  it.  The  square  of  cambric  bore  his  initials, 
J.  S.  Blood  from  her  lip  remained  on  it.  She  had  not 
washed  out  the  spots. 

She  put  it  to  her  lips  again,  mechanically.  A  faint  odour 
of  tobacco  still  clung  to  it. 

By  every  law  of  loyalty,  pride,  self-respect,  she  should 


ON  STAR  PEAK  65 

have  held  this  man  her  enemy.  Instead,  she  held  his  hand- 
kerchief against  her  lips, — crushed  it  there  suddenly,  closing 
her  eyes  while  the  colour  surged  and  surged  through  her 
skin  from  throat  to  hair. 

Then,  wearily,  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  out  into 
the  grey  and  empty  vista  of  her  life,  where  the  dreary  years 
seemed  to  stretch  like  milestones  away,  away  into  an  endless 
waste. 

She  put  the  handkerchief  into  her  pocket,  shouldered  her 
rifle,  moved  on  without  looking  about  her, — a  mistake  which 
only  the  emotion  of  the  moment  could  account  for  in  a  girl 
so  habituated  to  caution, — for  she  had  gone  only  a  few  rods 
before  a  man's  strident  voice  halted  her: 

"Halte  la!     Crosse  en  air!" 

"Drop  that  rifle!"  came  another  voice  from  behind  her. 
"You're  covered!     Throw  your  gun  on  the  ground!" 

She  stood  as  though  paralysed.  To  the  right  and  left 
she  heard  people  trampling  through  the  thicket  toward  her. 

"Down  with  that  gun,  damn  you!"  repeated  the  voice, 
breathless  from  running.  All  around  her  men  came  floun- 
dering and  crashing  toward  her  through  the  undergrowth. 
She  could  see  some  of  them. 

As  she  stooped  to  place  her  rifle  on  the  dead  leaves,  she 
drew  the  flat  packet  from  her  cartridge  sack  at  the  same  time 
and  slid  it  deftly  under  a  rotting  log.  Then,  calm  but  very 
pale,  she  stood  upright  to  face  events. 

The  first  man  wore  a  red  and  yellow  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief over  the  lower  half  of  his  face,  pulled  tightly  across 
a  bony  nose.  He  held  a  long  pistol  nearly  parallel  to  his 
own  body ;  and  when  he  came  up  to  where  she  was  standing 
he  poked  the  muzzle  into  her  stomach. 


66  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

She  did  not  flinch;  he  said  nothing;  she  looked  intently 
into  the  two  ratty  eyes  fastened  on  her  over  the  edge  of  his 
bandanna. 

Five  other  men  were  surrounding  her,  but  they  all  wore 
white  masks  of  vizard  shape,  revealing  chin  and  mouth. 

They  were  different  otherwise,  also,  wearing  various  sorts 
and  patterns  of  sport  clothes,  brand  new,  and  giving  them 
an  odd,  foreign  appearance. 

What  troubled  her  most  was  the  silence  they  maintained. 
The  man  wearing  the  bandanna  was  the  only  one  who 
seemed  at  all  a  familiar  figure, — merely,  perhaps,  because 
he  was  American  in  build,  clothing,  and  movement. 

He  took  her  by  the  shoulder,  turned  her  around  and  gave 
her  a  shove  forward.  She  staggered  a  step  or  two;  he  gave 
her  another  shove  and  she  comprehended  that  she  was  to 
keep  on  going. 

Presently  she  found  herself  in  a  steep,  wet  deer-trail  rising 
upward  through  a  gully.  She  knew  that  runway.  It  led 
up  Star  Peak. 

Behind  her  as  she  climbed  she  heard  the  slopping,  panting 
tread  of  men;  her  wind  was  better  than  theirs;  she  climbed 
lithely  upward,  setting  a  pace  which  finally  resulted  in  a 
violent  jerk  backward, — a  savage,  wordless  admonition  to 
go  more  slowly. 

As  she  climbed  she  wondered  whether  she  should  have 
fired  an  alarm  shot  on  the  chance  of  the  State  Trooper, 
Stormont,  hearing  it. 

But  she  had  thought  only  of  the  packet  at  the  moment 
of  surprise.  And  now  she  wondered  whether,  when  freed, 
she  could  ever  again  find  that  rotting  log. 

Up,  up,  always  up  along  the  wet  gully,  deep  with  silt  and 


ON  STAR  PEAK  67 

frost-splintered  rock,  she  toiled,  the  heavy  gasping  of  men 
behind  her.  Twice  she  was  jerked  to  a  halt  while  her  escort 
rested. 

Once,  without  turning,  she  said  unsteadily:  "Who  are 
you?     What  have  I  done  to  you?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me "  she  began  again, 

and  v^-as  shaken  by  the  shoulder  until  silent. 

At  last  the  vast  arch  of  the  eastern  sky  sprang  out  ahead, 
where  stunted  spruces  stood  out  against  the  sunshine  and 
the  intense  heat  of  midday  fell  upon  a  bare  table-land  of 
rock  and  moss  and  fern. 

As  she  came  out  upon  the  level,  the  man  behind  her  took 
both  her  arms  and  pulled  them  back  and  somebody  bandaged 
her  eyes.  Then  a  hand  closed  on  her  left  arm  and,  so 
guided,  she  stumbled  and  crept  forward  across  the  rocks  for 
a  few  moments  until  her  guide  halted  her  and  forced  her 
into  a  sitting  position  on  a  smooth,  flat  boulder. 

She  heard  the  crunching  of  heavy  feet  all  around  her, 
whispering  made  hoarse  by  breath  exhausted,  movement 
across  rock  and  scrub,  retreating  steps. 

For  an  interminable  time  she  sat  there  alone  in  the  hot 
sun,  drenched  to  the  skin  in  sweat,  listening,  thinking,  striv- 
ing to  find  a  reason  for  this  lawless  outrage. 

After  a  long  while  she  heard  somebody  coming  across 
the  rocks,  stiffened  as  she  listened  with  some  vague  pre- 
sentiment of  evil. 

Somebody  had  halted  beside  her.  After  a  pause  she  was 
aware  of  nimble  fingers  busy  with  the  bandage  over  her  eyes. 

At  first,  when  freed,  the  light  blinded  her.  By  degrees 
she  was  able  to  distinguish  the  rocky  crest  of  Star  Peak, 


68  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

with  the  tops  of  tall  trees  appearing  level  with  the  rocks 
from  depths  below. 

Then  she  turned,  slowly,  and  looked  at  the  man  who  had 
seated  himself  beside  her. 

He  wore  a  white  mask  over  a  delicate,  smoothly  shaven 
face. 

His  soft  hat  and  sporting  clothes  were  dark  grey,  evi- 
dently new.  And  she  noticed  his  hands — long,  elegantly 
made,  smooth,  restless,  playing  with  a  pencil  and  some  sheets 
of  paper  on  his  knees. 

As  she  met  his  brilliant  eyes  behind  the  mask,  his  delicate, 
thin  lips  grew  tense  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  smile — or  a 
soundless  sort  of  laugh. 

"Veree  happee,"  he  said,  "to  make  the  acquaintance. 
Pardon  my  unceremony,  miss,  but  onlee  necissitee  compels. 
Are  you,  perhaps,  a  little  rested?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah!  Then,  if  you  permit,  we  proceed  with  affairs  of 
moment.  You  will  be  sufficiently  kind  to  write  down  what 
I  say.     Yes?" 

He  placed  paper  and  pencil  in  Eve's  hand.  Without 
demurring  or  hesitation  she  made  ready  to  write,  her  mind 
groping  wildly  for  the  reason  of  it  all. 

"Write,"  he  said,  with  his  silent  laugh  which  was  more 
like  the  soundless  snarl  of  a  lynx  unafraid : 

"To  Mike  Clinch,  my  fathaire,  from  his  child,  Eve.  .  .  . 
I  am  hostage,  held  by  Jose  Ouintana.  Pay  what  you  owe 
him  and  I  go  free. 

"For  each  day  delay  he  sends  to  you  one  finger  which 
will  be  severed  from  my  right  hand — : — " 


ON  STAR  PEAK  69 

Eve's  slender  fingers  trembled;  she  looked  up  at  the 
masked  man,  stared  steadily  into  his  brilliant  eyes. 

"Proceed  miss,  if  you  are  so  amiable,"  he  said  softly. 

She  wrote  on:  " — One  finger  for  every  day's  delay.  The 
whole  hand  at  the  week's  end.  The  other  hand  then,  finger 
by  finger.     Then,  alas !  the  right  foot " 

Eve  trembled. 

"Proceed,"  he  said  softly. 

She  wrote :  "If  you  agree  you  shall  pay  what  you  owe  to 
Jose  Quintana  in  this  manner :  you  shall  place  a  stick  at  the 
edge  of  the  Star  Pond  where  the  Star  rivulet  flows  out. 
Upon  this  stick  you  shall  tie  a  white  rag.  At  the  foot  of 
the  stick  you  shall  lay  the  parcel  which  contains  your  indebt 
to  Jose  Quintana. 

"Failing  this,  by  to-night  one  finger  at  sunset." 

The  man  paused:  Eve  waited,  dumb  under  the  surging 
confusion  in  her  brain.  A  sort  of  incredulous  horror  be- 
numbed her,  through  which  she  still  heard  and  perceived. 

"Be  kind  enough  to  sign  it  with  your  name,"  said  the  man 
pleasantly. 

Eve  signed. 

Then  the  masked  man  took  the  letter,  got  up,  removed 
his  hat. 

"I  am  Quintana,"  he  said.  "I  keep  my  word.  A  thou- 
sand thanks  and  apologies,  miss.  I  trust  that  your  detention 
may  be  brief  and  not  too  disagreeable.  I  place  at  your  feet 
my  humble  respects." 

He  bowed,  put  on  his  hat,  and  walked  quickly  away.  And 
she  saw  him  descend  the  rocks  to  the  eastward,  where  the 
peak  slopes. 

When  Quintana  had  disappeared  behind  the  summit  scrub 


70  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

and  rocks,  Eve  slowly  stood  up  and  looked  about  her  at  the 
rocky  pulpit  so  familiar. 

There  was  only  one  way  out.  Quintana  had  gone  that 
way.  His  men  no  doubt  guarded  it.  Otherwise,  sheer 
precipices  confronted  her. 

She  walked  to  the  western  edge  where  a  sheet  of  slippery 
reindeer  moss  clothed  the  rock.  Below  the  mountain  fell 
away  to  the  valley  where  she  had  been  made  prisoner. 

She  looked  out  over  the  vast  panorama  of  wilderness  and 
mountain,  range  on  range  stretching  blue  to  the  horizon. 
She  looked  down  into  the  depths  of  the  valley  where  deep 
under  the  flaming  foliage  of  October,  somewhere,  a  State 
Trooper  was  sitting,  cheek  on  hand,  beside  a  waterfall — or, 
perhaps,  riding  slowly  through  a  forest  which  she  might 
never  gaze  upon  again. 

There  was  a  noise  on  the  rocks  behind  her.  A  masked 
man  came  out  of  the  spruce  scrub,  laid  a  blanket  on  the 
rocks,  placed  a  loaf  of  bread,  some  cheese,  and  a  tin  pail 
full  of  water  upon  it,  motioned  her,  and  went  away  through 
the  dwarf  spruces. 

Eve  walked  slowly  to  the  blanket.  She  drank  out  of  the 
tin  pail.  Then  she  set  aside  the  food,  lay  down,  and  buried 
her  quivering  face  in  her  arms. 

The  sun  was  half  way  between  zenith  and  horizon  when 
she  heard  somebody  coming,  and  rose  to  a  sitting  posture. 
Her  visitor  was  Quintana. 

He  came  up  to  her  quite  close,  stood  with  glittering  eyes 
intent  upon  her. 

After  a  moment  he  handed  her  a  letter. 

She  could  scarcely  unfold  it,  she  trembled  so: 


ON  STAR  PEAK  71 

*'Girlie,  for  God's  sake  give  that  packet  to  Ouintana  and 
come  on  home.  I'm  near  crazy  with  it  all.  What  the  hell's 
anything  worth  beside  you  girlie.  I  don't  give  a  damn  for 
nothing  only  you,  so  come  on  quick.     Dad." 

After  a  little  while  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  Quintana. 

"So,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  are  the  little  she-fox  that 
has  learned  tricks  already." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Wher€  is  that  packet?" 

"I  haven't  it." 

"Where  is  it?" 

She  shook  her  head  slightly. 

"You  had  a  packet,"  he  insisted  fiercely.  "Look  here! 
Regard!"  and  he  spread  out  a  penciled  sheet  in  Chnch's 
hand: 

"Jose  Quintana: 

"You  win.     She's  got  that  stuff  with  her.     Take 
your  damn  junk  and  let  my  girl  go. 

"Mike  Clinch." 

"Well,"  said  Ouintana,  a  thin,  strident  edge  to  his  tone. 
"My  father  is  mistaken.  I  haven't  any  packet." 
The  man's  visage  behind  his  mask  flushed  darkly.  With- 
out warning  or  ceremony  he  caught  Eve  by  the  throat  and 
tore  open  her  shirt.  Then,  hissing  and  cursing  and  panting 
with  his  own  violence,  he  searched  her  brutally  and  without 
mercy — flung  her  down  and  tore  off  her  spiral  puttees  and 
even  her  shoes  and  stockings,  now  apparently  beside  himself 
with  fury,  puffing,  gasping,  always  with  a  fierce,  nasal  sort 
of  whining  undertone  like  an  animal  worrying  its  kill. 


72  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Cowardly  beast!"  she  panted,  fighting  him  with  all  her 

strength — "filthy,   cowardly   beast! "   striking  at  him, 

wrenching  his  grasp  away,  snatching  at  the  disordered 
clothing  half  stripped  from  her. 

His  hunting  knife  fell  clattering  and  she  fought  to  get  it, 
but  he  struck  her  with  his  open  hand,  knocking  her  down 
at  his  feet,  and  stood  glaring  at  her  with  every  tooth  bared. 

"So,"  he  cried,  "I  give  you  ten  minutes,  make  up  your 
mind,  tell  me  what  you  do  with  that  packet." 

He  wiped  the  blood  from  his  face  where  she  had  struck 
him. 

"You  don't  know  Jose  Quintana.  No !  You  shall  make 
his  acquaintance.     Yes !" 

Eve  got  up  on  naked  feet,  quivering  from  head  to  foot, 
striving  to  button  the  grey  shirt  at  her  throat. 

"Where?"  he  demanded,  beside  himself. 

Her  mute  lips  only  tightened. 

"Ver'  well,  by  God !"  he  cried.  "I  go  make  me  some  fire. 
You  like  it,  eh?  We  shall  put  one  toe  in  the  fire  until  it 
burn  off.     Yes?     Eh?     How  you  like  it?     Eh?" 

The  girl's  trembling  hands  continued  busy  with  her 
clothing. 

"So!"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "you  remain  dumb!  Well,  then, 
in  ten  minutes  you  shall  talk!" 

He  walked  toward  her,  pushed  her  savagely  aside,  and 
strode  on  into  the  spruce  thicket. 

The  instant  he  disappeared  Eve  caught  up  the  knife  he 
had  dropped,  knelt  down  on  the  blanket  and  fell  to  cutting 
it  into  strips. 

The  hunting  knife  was  like  a  razor;  the  feverish  business 


ON  STAR  PEAK  73 

was  accomplished  in  a  few  moments,  the  pieces  knotted,  the 
cord  strained  in  a  desperate  test  over  her  knee. 

And  now  she  ran  to  the  precipice  where,  ten  feet  below, 
the  top  of  a  great  pine  protruded  from  the  gulf. 

On  the  edge  of  the  abyss  was  a  spruce  root.  It  looked 
dead,  wedged  deep  between  two  rocks;  but  with  all  her 
strength  she  could  not  pull  it  out. 

Sobbing,  breathless,  she  tied  her  blanket  rope  to  this, 
threw  the  other  end  over  the  cliff's  edge,  and,  not  giving 
herself  time  to  think,  lay  flat,  grasped  the  knotted  line, 
swung  off. 

Knot  by  knot  she  went  down.  Half-way  her  naked  feet 
brushed  the  needles.  She  looked  over  her  shoulder,  behind 
and  down.  Then,  teeth  clenched,  she  lowered  herself  steadily 
as  she  had  learned  to  do  in  the  school  gymnasium,  down, 
down,  until  her  legs  came  astride  of  a  pine  limb. 

It  bent,  swayed,  gave  with  her,  letting  her  sag  to  a  larger 
limb  below.     This  she  clasped,  letting  go  her  rope. 

Already,  from  the  mountain's  rocky  crest  above,  she  heard 
excited  cries.  Once,  on  her  breakneck  descent,  she  looked 
up  through  the  foliage  of  the  pine;  and  she  saw,  far  up 
against  the  sky,  a  white-masked  face  looking  over  the  edge 
of  the  precipice. 

But  if  it  were  Quintana  or  another  of  his  people  she  could 
not  tell.  And,  again  looking  down,  she  began  again  the 
terrible  descent. 

An  hour  later.  Trooper  Stormont  of  the  State  Con- 
stabulary, sat  his  horse  in  amazement  to  see  a  ragged, 
breathless,  boyish  figure  speeding  toward  him  among  the 


74  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

tamaracks,  her  naked  feet  splashing  through  pool  and  mire 
and  sphagnum. 

"Good  heavens !"  he  exclaimed  as  she  flung  herself  against 
his  stirrup,  sobbing,  hysterical,  and  clinging  to  his  knee. 

"Take  me  back,"  she  stammered,  " — take  me  back  to 
daddy!     I  can't — go  on — ^another  step " 

He  leaned  down,  swung  her  up  to  his  saddle  in  front, 
holding  her  cradled  in  his  arms. 

"Lie  still,"  he  said  coolly;  "you're  all  right  now." 

For  another  second  he  sat  looking  down  at  her,  at  the 
dishevelled  hair,  the  gasping  mouth, — at  the  rags  clothing 
her,  and  at  the  flat  packet  clasped  convulsively  to  her  breast. 

Then  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  his  horse,  guiding  left 
with  one  knee. 


Episode  Four 
A  PRIVATE  WAR 


"1X7" HEN  State  Trooper  Stormont  rode  up  to  Clinch's 
with  Eve  Strayer  lying  in  his  arms,  Mike  Clinch 
strode  out  of  the  motley  crowd  around  the  tavern,  laid  his 
rifle  against  a  tree,  and  stretched  forth  his  powerful  hands 
to  receive  his  stepchild. 

He  held  her,  cradled,  looking  down  at  her  in  silence  as 
the  men  clustered  around. 

"Eve,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "be  you  hurted?" 

The  girl  opened  her  sky-blue  eyes. 

"I'm  all  right,  dad,  .  .  .  just  tired.  .  .  .  I've  got  your 
parcel  .  .  .  safe.  ..." 

"To  hell  with  the  gol-dinged  parcel,"  he  almost  sobbed; 
" — did  Quintana  harm  you?" 

"No,  dad." 

As  he  carried  her  to  the  veranda  the  packet  fell  from  her 
cramped  fingers.  Clinch  kicked  it  under  a  chair  and  con- 
tinued on  into  the  house  and  up  the  stairs  to  Eve's  bed- 
room. 

Flat  on  the  bed,  the  girl  opened  her  drowsy  eyes  again, 
unsmiling. 

"Did  that  dirty  louse  misuse  you?"  demanded  Clinch  un- 
steadily.    "G'wan  tell  me,  girlie." 

75 


76  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"He  knocked  me  down.  .  .  .  He  went  away  to  get  fire 
to  make  me  talk.  I  cut  up  the  blanket  they  gave  me  and 
made  a  rope.  Then  I  went  over  the  cliff  into  the  big  pine 
below.     That  was  all,  dad." 

Clinch  filled  a  tin  basin  and  washed  the  girl's  torn  feet. 
When  he  had  dried  them  he  kissed  them.  She  felt  his  un- 
shaven lips  trembling,  heard  him  whimper  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life. 

"Why  the  hell  didn't  you  give  Quintana  the  packet?"  he 
demanded.  'What  does  that  count  for — what  does  any 
damn  thing  count  for  against  you,  girlie?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  out  of  heavy-lidded  eyes :  "You  told 
me  to  take  good  care  of  it." 

"It's  only  a  little  truck  I'd  laid  by  for  you,"  he  retorted 
unsteadily,  " — a  few  trifles  for  to  make  a  grand  lady  of  you 
when  the  time's  ripe.  'Tain't  worth  a  thorn  in  your  little 
foot  to  me.  .  .  .  The  hull  gol-dinged  world  full  o'  money 
ain't  worth  that  there  stone-bruise  onto  them  little  white 
feet  o'  yourn,  Eve. 

"Look  at  you  now — my  God,  look  at  you  there,  all  peaked 
an'  scairt  an'  bleedin' — plum  tuckered  out,  'n'  all  ragged  'n' 
dirty " 

A  blaze  of  fury  flared  in  his  small  pale  eyes:  " — And  he 
hit  you,  too,  did  he  ? — that  skunk !  Quintana  done  that  to 
my  little  girlie,  did  he?" 

"I  don't  know  if  it  was  Quintana.  I  don't  know  who 
he  was,  dad,"  she  murmured  drowsily. 

"Masked,  wa'n't  he?" 

"Yes." 

Clinch's  iron  visage  twitched  and  quivered.  He  gnawed 
his  thin  lips  into  control: 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  77 

"Girlie,  I  gotta  go  out  a  spell.  But  I  ain't  a-leavin'  you 
alone  here.  I'll  git  somebody  to  set  up  with  you.  You 
jest  lie  snug  and  don't  think  about  nothin'  till  I  come  back." 

"Yes,  dad,"  she  sighed,  closing  her  eyes. 

Clinch  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  he  went 
downstairs  heavily,  and  out  to  the  veranda  where  State 
Trooper  Stormont  still  sat  his  saddle,  talking  to  Hal  Smith. 
On  the  porch  a  sullen  crowd  of  backwoods  riff-raff  lounged 
in  silence,  awaiting  events. 

Clinch  called  across  to  Smith:  "Hey,  Hal,  g'wan  up  and 
set  with  Eve  a  spell  while  she's  nappin'.     Take  a  gun." 

Smith  said  to  Stormont  in  a  low  voice :  "Do  me  a  favour. 
Jack?" 

"You  bet." 

"That  girl  of  Clinch's  is  in  real  danger  if  left  here  alone. 
But  I've  got  another  job  on  my  hands.  Can  you  keep  a 
watch  on  her  till  I  return?" 

"Can't  you  tell  me  a  little  more,  Jim?" 

"I  will,  later.     Do  you  mind  helping  me  out  now?" 

"All  right." 

Trooper  Stormont  swung  out  of  his  saddle  and  led  his 
horse  away  toward  the  stable. 

Hal  Smith  went  into  the  bar  where  Clinch  stood,  oiling 
a  rifle. 

"G'wan  upstairs,"  he  muttered.  "I  got  a  private  war  on. 
It's  me  or  Quintana,  now." 

"You're  going  after  Quintana?"  inquired  Smith,  care- 
lessly. 

"I  be.  And  I  want  you  should  git  your  gun  and  set  up 
by  Evie.  And  I  want  you  should  kill  any  living  human 
son  of  a  slut  that  comes  botherin'  around  this  here  hotel." 


78  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"I'm  going  after  Quintana  with  you,  Mike." 

"B'gosh,  you  ain't.     You're  a-goin'  to  keep  watch  here." 

"No.  Trooper  Stormont  has  promised  to  stay  with  Eve. 
You'll  need  every  man  to-day,  Mike.  This  isn't  a  deer 
drive." 

Clinch  let  his  rifle  sag  across  the  hollow  of  his  left  arm, 

"Did  you  beef  to  that  trooper?"  he  demanded  in  his 
pleasant,  misleading  way. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  crazy?"  retorted  Smith. 

"Well,  what  the  hell " 

"They  all  know  that  some  man  used  your  girl  roughly. 
That's  all  I  said  to  him — 'keep  an  eye  on  Eve  until  we  can 
get  back.'  And  I  tell  you,  Mike,  if  we  drive  Star  Peak 
we  won't  be  back  till  long  after  sundown." 

Clinch  growled:  "I  ain't  never  asked  no  favours  of  no 
State  Trooper " 

"He  did  you  a  favour,  didn't  he?  He  brought  your 
daughter  in." 

"Yes,  'n'  he'd  jail  us  all  if  he  got  anything  on  us." 

"Yes ;  and  he'll  shoot  to  kill  if  any  of  Quintana's  people 
come  here  and  try  to  break  in." 

Clinch  grunted,  peeled  off  his  coat  and  got  into  a  leather 
vest  bristling  with  cartridge  loops. 

Trooper  Stormont  came  in  the  back  door,  carrying  his 
rifle. 

"Some  rough  fellow  been  bothering  your  little  daughter. 
Clinch?"  he  inquired.  "The  child  was  nearly  all  in  when 
she  met  me  out  by  Owl  Marsh — clothes  half  torn  off  her 
back,  bare-foot  and  bleeding.  She's  a  plucky  youngster. 
I'll  say  so,  Clinch.  If  you  think  the  fellow  may  come  here 
to  annoy  her  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  her  till  you  return." 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  79 

Qinch  went  up  to  Stormont,  put  his  powerful  hands  on 
the  young  fellow's  shoulders. 

After  a  moment's  glaring  silence:  "You  look  clean.  I 
guess  you  be,  too.  I  wanta  tell  you  I'll  cut  the  guts  outa 
any  guy  that  lays  the  heft  of  a  single  finger  onto  Eve." 

"I'd  do  so,  too,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Stormont. 

"Would  ye?  Well,  I  guess  you're  a  real  man,  too,  even 
if  you're  a  State  Trooper,"  growled  Clinch.  "G'wan  up. 
She's  a-nappin'.  If  she  wakes  up  you  kinda  talk  pleasant 
to  her.  You  act  kind  pleasant  and  cosy.  She  ain't  had  no 
ma.  You  tell  her  to  set  snug  and  ca'm.  Then  you  cook 
her  a  Qgg  if  she  wants  it.  There's  pie,  too.  I  cal'late  to 
be  back  by  sundown." 

"Nearer  morning,"  remarked  Smith. 

Stormont  shrugged.  "I'll  stay  until  you  show  up, 
CUnch." 

The  latter  took  another  rifle  from  the  corner  and  handed 
it  to  Smith  with  a  loop  of  ammunition. 

"Come  on,"  he  grunted. 

On  the  veranda  he  strode  up  to  the  group  of  sullen, 
armed  men  who  regarded  his  advent  in  expressionless 
silence. 

Sid  Hone  was  there,  and  Harvey  Chase,  and  the  Hastings 
boys,  and  Cornelius  Blommers. 

"You  fellas  comin'?"  inquired  Clinch. 

"Where?"  drawled  Sid  Hone. 

"Me  an'  Hal  Smith  is  cal'kalatin'  to  drive  Star  Peak. 
It  ain't  a  deer,  neither." 

There  ensued  a  grim  interval.  Clinch's  wintry  smile 
began  to  glimmer. 

"Booze    agents    or   game   protectors?     Which?"    asked 


80  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Byron  Hastings.  "They  both  look  like  deer — if  a  man 
gits  mad  enough." 

CHnch's  smile  became  terrifying.  "I  shell  out  five  hun- 
dred dollars  for  every  deer  that's  dropped  on  Star  Peak 
to-day,"  he  said.  "And  I  hope  there  won't  be  no  accidents 
and  no  mistakin'  no  stranger  for  a  deer,"  he  added,  wagging 
his  great,  square  head. 

"Them  accidents  is  liable  to  happen,"  remarked  Hone, 
reflectively. 

After  another  pause:  "Where's  Jake  Kloon?"  inquired 
Smith. 

Nobody  seemed  to  know. 

"He  was  here  when  Mike  called  me  into  the  bar,"  insisted 
Smith.     "Where'd  he  go?" 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  Clinch  recollected  the  packet  which  he 
had  kicked  under  a  veranda  chair.     It  was  no  longer  there. 

"Any  o'  you  fellas  seen  a  package  here  on  the  pyazza?" 
demanded  Clinch  harshly. 

"Jake  Kloon,  he  had  somethin',"  drawled  Chase.  "I 
supposed  it  was  his  lunch.     Mebbe  'twas,  too." 

In  the  intense  stillness  Clinch  glared  into  one  face  after 
another. 

"Boys,"  he  said  in  his  softly  modulated  voice,  "I  kinda 
guess  there's  a  rat  amongst  us.  I  wouldn't  like  for  to  be 
that  there  rat — no,  not  for  a  billion  hundred  dollars.  No, 
I  wouldn't.  Becuz  that  there  rat  has  bit  my  little  girlie, 
Eve, — like  that  there  deer  bit  her  up  onto  Star  Peak.  .  .  . 
No,  I  wouldn't  like  for  to  be  that  there  rat.  Fer  he's 
a-goin'  tO'  die  like  a  rat,  same's  that  there  deer  is  a-goin'  to 
die  like  a  deer.  .  .  .  Anyone  seen  which  way  Jake  Kloon 
went  ?" 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  81 

"Now  you  speak  of  it,"  said  Byron  Hastings,  "seems  like 
I  noticed  Jake  and  Earl  Leverett  down  by  the  woods  near 
the  pond.  I  kinda  disremembered  when  you  asked,  but  I 
guess  I  seen  them." 

"Sure,"  said  Sid  Hone.  "Now  you  mention  it,  I  seen 
'em,  too.  Thinks  I  to  m'self,  they  is  pickin'  them  black- 
berries down  to  the  crick.     Yas,  I  seen  'em." 

Clinch  tossed  his  rifle  across  his  left  shoulder. 

"Rats  an'  deer,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Them's  the  articles 
we're  lookin'  for.  Only  for  God's  sake  be  careful  you  don't 
mistake  a  man  for  'em  in  the  woods." 

One  or  two  men  laughed. 

On  the  edge  of  Owl  Marsh  Clinch  halted  in  the  trail, 
and,  as  his  men  came  up,  he  counted  them  with  a  cold  eye. 

"Here's  the  runway  and  this  here  hazel  bush  is  my 
station,"  he  said.  "You  fellas  do  the  barkin'.  You,  Sid 
Hone,  and  you.  Corny,  start  drivin'  from  the  west.  Harve, 
you  yelp  'em  from  the  north  by  Lynx  Brook.  Jim  and 
Byron,  you  get  twenty  minutes  to  go  'round  to  the  eastward 
and  drive  by  the  Slide.  And  you,  Hal  Smith," — ^he  looked 
around — "where  'n  hell  be  you,  Hal  ? " 

Smith  came  up  from  the  bog's  edge. 

"Send  'em  out,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I've  got  Jake's 
tracks  in  the  bog." 

Clinch  motioned  his  beaters  to  their  duty.  "Twenty 
minutes,"  he  reminded  Hone,  Chase,  and  Blommers,  "before 
you  start  drivin'."  And,  to  the  Hastings  boys :  "If  you 
shoot,  aim  low  for  their  bellies.  Don't  leave  no  blood 
around.     Scrape  it  up.     We  bury  what  we  get." 

He  and   Smith  stood  looking  after  the  five  slouching 


82  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

figures  moving  away  toward  their  blind  trails.  When  all 
had  disappeared: 

"Show  me  Jake's  mark,"  he  said  calmly. 

Smith  led  him  to  the  edge  of  the  bog,  knelt  down,  drew 
aside  a  branch  of  witch-hopple.  A  man's  footprint  was 
plainly  visible  on  the  mud. 

"That's  Jake,"  said  Clinch  slowly.  'T  know  them  half- 
soled  boots  o'  hisn."  He  lifted  another  branch.  "There's 
another  man's  track!" 

"The  other  is  probably  Leverett's." 

"Likely.     He's  got  thin  feet." 

"I  think  I'd  better  go  after  them,"  said  Smith,  reflectively. 

"They'll  plug  you,  you  poor  jackass — two  o'  them  like 
that,  and  one  a-settin'  up  to  watch  out.  Hell!  Be  you 
tired  o'  bed  an'  board?" 

Smith  smiled:    "Don't  you  worry,  Mike.'* 

"Why?  You  think  you're  that  smart?  Jest  becuz  you 
stuck  up  a  tourist  you  think  you're  cock  o'  the  North  Woods 
— with  them  two  foxes  lyin'  out  for  to  snap  you  up?  Hey? 
Why,  you  poor  dumb  thing,  Jake  runs  Canadian  hootch  for 
a  livin'  and  Leverett's  a  trap  thief!  What  could  you  do 
with  a  pair  o'  foxes  like  that?" 

"Catch  'em,"  said  Smith,  coolly.  "You  mind  your  busi- 
ness, Mike." 

As  he  shouldered  his  rifle  and  started  into  the  marsh. 
Clinch  dropped  a  heavy  hand  on  his  shoulder;  but  the  young 
man  shook  it  off. 

"Shut  up,"  he  said  sharply.  "You've  a  private  war  on 
your  hands.     So  have  I.     I'll  take  care  of  my  own." 

"What's  your  grievance?"  demanded  Clinch,  surprised. 

"Jake  Kloon  played  a  dirty  trick  on  me." 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  83 

"When  was  that?" 

"Not  very  long  ago." 

"I  hadn't  heard,"  said  Clinch. 

"Well,  you  hear  it  now,  don't  you?  All  right.  All 
right;  I'm  going  after  him." 

As  he  started  again  across  the  marsh,  Clinch  called  out  in 
a  guarded  voice :  "Take  good  care  of  that  packet  if  you 
catch  them  rats.     It  belongs  to  Eve." 

"I'll  take  such  good  care  of  it,"  replied  Smith,  "that  its 
proper  owner  need  not  worry." 

II 

The  "proper  owner"  of  the  packet  was,  at  that  moment, 
on  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  travelling  toward  the  United  States. 

Four  other  pretended  owners  of  the  Grand  Duchess 
Theodorica's  jewels,  totally  unconscious  of  anything  im- 
pending which  might  impair  their  several  titles  to  the  gems, 
were  now  gathered  together  in  a  wilderness  within  a  few 
miles  of  one  another. 

Jose  Quintana  lay  somewhere  in  the  forests  with  his  gang, 
fiercely  planning  the  recovery  of  the  treasure  of  which 
Clinch  had  once  robbed  him.  Clinch  squatted  on  his  run- 
way, watching  the  mountain  flank  with  murderous  eyes. 
It  was  no  longer  the  Flaming  Jewel  which  mattered.  His 
master  passion  ruled  him  now.  Those  who  had  offered 
violence  to  Eve  must  be  reckoned  with  first  of  all.  The 
hand  that  struck  Eve  Strayer  had  offered  mortal  insult  to 
Mike  Clinch. 

As  for  the  third  pretender  to  the  Flaming  Jewel,  Jake 
Kloon,  he  was  now  travelling  in  a  fox's  circle  toward 
Drowned  Valley — that  shaggy  wilderness  of  slime  and  tama- 


84s  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

rack  and  depthless  bog  which  touches  the  northwest  base 
of  Star  Peak.  He  was  not  hurrying,  having  no  thought  of 
pursuit.  Behind  him  plodded  Leverett,  the  trap  thief,  very, 
very  busy  with  his  own  ideas. 

To  Leverett's  repeated  requests  that  Kloon  halt  and  open 
the  packet  to  see  what  it  contained,  Kloon  gruffly  refused. 

"What  do  we  care  what's  in  it?"  he  said.  "We  get  ten 
thousand  apiece  over  our  rifles  for  it  from  them  guys. 
Ain't  it  a  good  enough  job  for  you?" 

"Maybe  we  make  more  if  we  take  what's  inside  it  for 
ourselves,"  argued  Leverett.     "Let's  take  a  peek,  anyway." 

"Naw.  I  don't  want  no  peek  nor  nothin'.  The  ten  thou- 
sand comes  too  easy.  More  might  scare  us.  Let  that  guy, 
Quintana,  have  what's  his'n.  All  I  ask  is  my  rake-off. 
You  alius  was  a  dirty,  thieving  mink,  Earl.  Let's  give  him 
his  and  take  ours  and  git.  I'm  going  to  Albany  to  live. 
You  bet  I  don't  stay  in  no  woods  where  Mike  Clinch  dens." 

They  plodded  on,  arguing,  toward  their  rendezvous  with 
Quintana's  outpost  on  the  edge  of  Drowned  Valley. 

The  fourth  pretender  to  the  pearls,  rubies,  and  great  gem 
called  the  Flaming  Jewel,  stolen  from  the  young  Grand 
Duchess  Theodorica  of  Esthonia  by  Jose  Quintana,  was  an 
unconscious  pretender,  entirely  innocent  of  the  role  assigned 
her  by  Clinch. 

For  Eve  Strayer  had  never  heard  where  the  packet  came 
from  or  what  it  contained.  All  she  knew  was  that  her 
stepfather  had  told  her  that  it  belonged  to  her.  And  the 
knowledge  left  her  incurious. 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  85 

III 

Eve  slept  the  sleep  of  mental  and  physical  exhaustion. 
Reaction  from  fear  brings  a  fatigue  more  profound  than 
that  which  follows  physical  overstrain.  But  the  healthy 
mind,  like  the  healthy  body,  disposes  very  thoroughly  of 
toxics  which  arise  from  terror  and  exhaustion. 

The  girl  slept  profoundly,  calmly.  Her  bruised  young 
mind  and  body  left  her  undisturbed.  There  was  neither 
restlessness  nor  fever.  Sleep  swept  her  with  its  clean,  sweet 
tide,  cleansing  the  superb  youth  and  health  of  her  with  the 
most  wonderful  balm  in  the  Divine  pharmacy. 

She  awoke  late  in  the  afternoon,  opened  her  flower-blue 
eyes,  and  saw  State  Trooper  Stormont  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow, and  gazing  out. 

Perhaps  Eve's  confused  senses  mistook  the  young  man 
for  a  vision ;  for  she  lay  very  still,  nor  stirred  even  her  little 
finger. 

After  a  while  Stormont  glanced  around  at  her.  A  warm, 
delicate  colour  stained  her  skin  slowly,  evenly,  from  throat 
to  hair. 

He  got  up  and  came  over  to  the  bed. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  he  asked,  awkwardly. 

"Where  is  dad?"  she  managed  to  inquire  in  a  steady  voice. 

"He  won't  be  back  till  late.  He  asked  me  to  stick  around 
— in  case  you  needed  anything " 

The  girl's  clear  eyes  searched  his. 

"Trooper  Stormont?" 

"Yes,  Eve." 

"Dad's  gone  after  Quintana." 

"Is  he  the  fellow  who  misused  you?" 


86  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"I  think  so." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Is  he  your  enemy  or  your  stepfather's?" 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head:  "I  can't  discuss  dad's  af- 
fairs with — with " 

"With  a  State  Trooper,"  smiled  Stormont.  "That's  all 
right,  Eve.     You  don't  have  to." 

There  was  a  pause ;  Stormont  stood  beside  the  bed,  look- 
ing down  at  her  with  his  diffident,  boyish  smile.  And  the 
girl  gazed  back  straight  into  his  eyes — eyes  she  had  so  often 
looked  into  in  her  dreams. 

"I'm  to  cook  you  an  egg  and  bring  you  some  pie,"  he 
remarked,  still  smiling. 

"Did  dad  say  I  am  to  stay  in  bed?" 

"That  was  my  inference.  Do  you  feel  very  lame  and 
sore?" 

"My  feet  burn." 

"You  poor  kid!  .  .  .  Would  you  let  me  look  at  them? 
I  have  a  first-aid  packet  with  me." 

After  a  moment  she  nodded  and  turned  her  face  on  the 
pillow.  He  drew  aside  the  cover  a  little,  knelt  down  beside 
the  bed. 

Then  he  rose  and  went  downstairs  to  the  kitchen.  There 
was  hot  water  in  the  kettle.  He  fetched  it  back,  bathed 
her  feet,  drew  out  from  cut  and  scratch  the  flakes  of  granite- 
grit  and  brier-points  that  still  remained  there. 

From  his  first-aid  packet  he  took  a  capsule,  dissolved  it, 
sterilized  the  torn  skin,  then  bandaged  both  feet  with  a 
deliciously  cool  salve,  and  drew  the  sheets  into  place. 

Eve  had  not  stirred  nor  spoken.     He  washed  and  dried 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  87 

his  hands  and  came  back,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  the 
bedside. 

''Sleep,  if  you  feel  like  it,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

As  she  made  no  sound  or  movement  he  bent  over  to  see 
if  she  had  already  fallen  asleep.  And  noticed  that  her 
flushed  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears, 

"Are  you  suffering?"  he  asked  gently. 

"No.  .  .  .  You  are  so  wonderfully  kind.  ..." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  kind?"  he  said,  amused  and  touched 
by  the  girl's  emotion. 

"I  tried  to  shoot  you  once.  That  is  why  you  ought  to 
hate  me." 

He  began  to  laugh :  "Is  that  what  you're  thinking  about  ?" 

"I — never  can — forget " 

"Nonsense.  We're  quits  anyway.  Do  you  remember 
what  I  did  to  youf" 

He  was  thinking  of  the  handcuffs.  Then,  in  her  vivid 
blush  he  read  what  she  was  thinking.  And  he  remembered 
his  lips  on  her  palms. 

He,  too,  now  was  blushing  brilliantly  at  memory  of  that 
swift,  sudden  rush  of  romantic  tenderness  which  this  girl 
had  witnessed  that  memorable  day  on  Owl  Marsh. 

In  the  hot,  uncomfortable  silence,  neither  spoke.  He 
seated  himself  after  a  while.  And,  after  a  while,  she  turned 
on  her  pillow  part  way  toward  him. 

Somehow  they  both  understood  that  it  was  friendship 
which  had  subtly  filled  the  interval  that  separated  them 
since  that  amazing  day. 

"I've  often  thought  of  you,"  he  said, — as  though  they 
had  been  discussing  his  absence. 

No  hour  of  the  waking  day  that  she  had  not  thought  of 


88  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

him.     But  she  did  not  say  so  now.     After  a  little  while: 

"Is  yours  a  lonely  life?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Sometimes.     But  I  love  the  forest." 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,  "the  forest  seems  like  a  trap  that 
I  can't  escape.     Sometimes  I  hate  it." 

"Are  you  lonely,  Eve  ?" 

"As  you  are.  You  see  I  know  what  the  outside  world  is. 
I  miss  it." 

"You  were  in  boarding  school  and  college." 

"Yes." 

"It  must  be  hard  for  you  here  at  Star  Pond." 

The  girl  sighed,  unconsciously : 

"There  are  days  when  I — can  scarcely — stand  it.  .  .  . 
The  wilderness  would  be  more  endurable  if  dad  and  I  were 
all  alone.  .  .  .  But  even  then " 

"You  need  young  people  of  your  own  age, — educated 
companions " 

"I  need  the  city,  Mr.  Stormont.  I  need  all  it  can  give: 
I'm  starving  for  it.     That's  all." 

She  turned  on  her  pillow,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  smiling 
faintly.  Her  face  bore  no  trace  of  the  tragic  truth  she  had 
uttered.  But  the  tragedy  was  plain  enough  to  him,  even 
without  her  passionless  words  of  revolt.  The  situation  of 
this  young,  educated  girl,  aglow  with  youth,  fettered,  body 
and  mind,  to  the  squalor  of  Clinch's  dump,  was  perfectly 
plain  to  anybody. 

She  said,  seeing  his  troubled  expression:  "I'm  sorry  I 
spoke  that  way." 

"I  knew  how  you  must  feel,  anyway." 

"It  seems  ungrateful,"  she  murmured.  "I  love  my  step- 
father." 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  89 

"You've  proven  that,"  he  remarked  with  a  dry  humour 
that  brought  the  hot  flush  to  her  face  again. 

"I  must  have  been  crazy  that  day,"  she  said.  "It  scares 
me  to  remember  what  I  tried  to  do.  .  .  .  What  a  frightful 
thing — if  I  had  killed  you How  can  you  forgive  n?e?"    . 

"How  can  you  forgive  me,  Eve  ?"  /^-' '    .        -^  \ 

She  turned  her  head:    "I  do."  /      ^/^  \^  ^^] 

"Entirely?"  L  \\^    g 

"Yes."  \a   X^.^.^ 

He  said, — a  slight  emotion  noticeable  in  his  voic^^ 
I  forgave  you  before  the  darned  gun  exploded  in. our  hsitK 

"How  could  you?"  she  protested. 

"I  was  thinking  all  the  while  that  you  were  acting  as  I'd 
have  acted  if  anything  threatened  my  father." 

"Were  you  thinking  of  thatf" 

"Yes, — and  also  how  to  get  hold  of  you  before  you  shot 
me."     He  began  to  laugh. 

After  a  moment  she  turned  her  head  to  look  at  him,  and 
her  smile  glimmered,  responsive  to  his  amusement.  But 
she  shivered  slightly,  too. 

"How  about  that  egg?"  he  inquired. 

"I  can  get  up " 

"Better  keep  off  your  feet.  What  is  there  in  the  pantry? 
You  must  be  starved." 

"I  could  eat  a  little  before  supper  time,"  she  admitted. 
"I  forgot  to  take  my  lunch  with  me  this  morning.  It  is 
still  there  in  the  pantry  on  the  bread  box,  wrapped  up  in 
brown  paper,  just  as  I  left  it " 

She  half  rose  in  bed,  supported  on  one  arm,  her  curly 
brown-gold  hair  framing  her  face : 

" — Two  cakes  of  sugar-milk  chocolate  in  a  flat  brown 


90  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

packet  tied  with  a  string,"  she  explained,  smiHng  at  his 
amusement. 

So  he  went  down  to  the  pantry  and  discovered  the  parcel 
on  the  bread  box  where  she  had  left  it  that  morning  before 
starting  for  the  cache  on  Owl  Marsh. 

He  brought  it  to  her,  placed  both  pillows  upright  behind 
her,  stepped  back  gaily  to  admire  the  effect.  Eve,  with  her 
parcel  in  her  hands,  laughed  shyly  at  his  comedy. 

"Begin  on  your  chocolate,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  back  to 
fix  you  some  bread  and  butter  and  a  cup  of  tea." 

When  again  he  had  disappeared,  the  girl,  still  smiling, 
began  to  untie  her  packet,  unhurriedly,  slowly  loosening 
string  and  wrapping. 

Her  attention  was  not  fixed  on  what  her  slender  fingers 
were  about. 

She  drew  from  the  parcel  a  flat  morocco  case  with  a  coat 
of  arms  and  crest  stamped  on  it  in  gold,  black,  and  scarlet. 

For  a  few  moments  she  stared  at  the  object  stupidly. 
The  next  moment  she  heard  Stormont's  spurred  tread  on 
the  stairs;  and  she  thrust  the  morocco  case  and  the  wrap- 
ping under  the  pillows  behind  her. 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  a  dazed  way  when  he  came  in 
with  the  tea  and  bread.  He  set  the  tin  tray  on  her  bureau 
and  came  over  to  the  bedside. 

"Eve,"  he  said,  "you  look  very  white  and  ill.  Have  you 
been  hurt  somewhere,  and  haven't  you  admitted  it?" 

She  seemed  unable  to  speak,  and  he  took  both  her  hands 
and  looked  anxiously  into  the  lovely,  pallid  features. 

After  a  moment  she  turned  her  head  and  buried  her  face 
in  the  pillow,  trembling  now  in  overwhelming  realization  of 


A  PRIVATE  WAR  91 

what  she  had  endured  for  the  sake  of  two  cakes  of  sugar- 
milk  chocolate  hidden  under  a  bush  in  the  forest. 

For  a  long  while  the  girl  lay  there,  the  feverish  flush  of 
tears  on  her  partly  hidden  face,  her  nervous  hands  tremu- 
lous, restless,  now  seeking  his,  convulsively,  now  striving  to 
escape  his  clasp — eloquent,  uncertain  little  hands  that  seemed 
to  tell  so  much  and  yet  were  telling  him  nothing  he  could 
understand. 

"Eve,  dear,"  he  said,  "are  you  in  pain?  What  is  it  that 
has  happened  to  you  ?  I  thought  you  were  all  right.  You 
seemed  all  right " 

"I  am,"  she  said  in  a  smothered  voice.  "You'll  stay  here 
with  me,  won't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  will.  It's  just  the  reaction.  It's  all  over. 
You're  relaxing.  That's  all,  dear.  You're  safe.  Nothing 
can  harm  you  now " 

"Please  don't  leave  me." 

After  a  moment :  "I  won't  leave  you.  .  .  .  I  wish  I  might 
never  leave  you." 

In  the  tense  silence  that  followed  her  trembling  ceased. 
Then  his  heart,  heavy,  irregular,  began  beating  so  that  the 
startled  pulses  in  her  body  awoke,  wildly  responsive. 

Deep  emotions,  new,  unfamiliar,  were  stirring,  awaking, 
confusing  them  both.  In  a  sudden  instinct  to  escape,  she 
turned  and  partly  rose  on  one  elbow,  gazing  blindly  about 
her  out  of  tear-marred  eyes. 

"I  want  my  room  to  myself,"  she  murmured  in  a  breath- 
less sort  of  way,  " — I  want  you  to  go  out,  please " 

A  boyish  flush  burnt  his  face.     He  got  up  slowly,  took 


92  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

his  rifle  from  the  corner,  went  out,  closing  the  door,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  stairs. 

And  there,  on  guard,  sat  Trooper  Stormont,  rigid,  un- 
stirring,  hour  after  hour,  facing  the  first  great  passion  of 
his  life,  and  stunned  by  the  impact  of  its  swift  and  un- 
expected blow. 

In  her  chamber,  on  the  bed's  edge,  sat  Eve  Strayer,  her 
deep  eyes  fixed  on  space.  Vague  emotions,  exquisitely  re- 
current, new  born,  possessed  her.  The  whole  world,  too, 
all  around  her  seemed  to  have  become  misty  and  golden  and 
all  pulsating  with  a  faint,  still  rhythm  that  indefinably 
thrilled  her  pulses  to  response. 

Passion,  full-armed,  springs  flaming  from  the  heart  of 
man.  Woman  is  slow  to  burn.  And  it  was  the  delicate 
phantom  of  passion  that  Eve  gazed  upon,  there  in  her 
unpainted  chamber,  her  sun-tanned  fingers  linked  listlessly 
in  her  lap,  her  little  feet  like  bruised  white  flowers  drooping 
above  the  floor. 

Hour  after  hour  she  sat  there  dreaming,  staring  at  the 
tinted  ghost  of  Eros,  rose-hued,  near-smiling,  unreal,  im- 
palpable as  the  dusty  sunbeam  that  slanted  from  her  window, 
gilding  the  boarded  floor. 

Three  spectres,  gliding  near,  paused  to  gaze  at  State 
Trooper  Stormont,  on  guard  by  the  stairs.  Then  they 
looked  at  the  closed  door  of  Eve's  chamber. 

Then  the  three  spectres.  Fate,  Chance  and  Destiny,  whis- 
pering together,  passed  on  toward  the  depths  of  the  sunset 
forest. 


Episode  Five 
DROWNED  VALLEY 


'T^HE  soft,  bluish  forest  shadows  had  lengthened,  and 
the  barred  sun-rays,  filtering  through,  were  tinged 
with  a  rosy  hue  before  Jake  Kloon,  the  hootch  runner,  and 
Earl  Leverett,  trap  thief,  came  to  Drowned  Valley. 

They  were  still  a  mile  distant  from  the  most  southern 
edge  of  that  vast  desolation,  but  already  tamaracks  appeared 
in  the  beauty  of  their  burnt  gold;  little  pools  glimmered  here 
and  there ;  patches  of  amber  sphagnum  and  crimson  pitcher- 
plants  became  frequent ;  and  once  or  twice  Kloon's  big  boots 
broke  through  the  crust  of  fallen  leaves,  soaking  him  to  the 
ankles  with  black  silt. 

Leverett,  always  a  coward,  had  pursued  his  devious  and 
larcenous  way  through  the  world,  always  in  deadly  fear  of 
sink  holes. 

His  movements  and  paths  were  those  of  a  weasel,  pre- 
ferring always  solid  ground ;  but  he  lacked  the  courage  of 
that  sinuous  httle  beast,  though  he  possessed  all  of  its 
ferocity  and  far  more  cunning. 

Now  trotting  lightly  and  tirelessly  in  the  broad  and  care- 
less spoor  of  Jake  Kloon,  his  narrow,  pointed  head  alert, 
and  every  fear-sharpened  instinct  tensely  observant,  the  trap- 
thief  continued  to  meditate  murder. 

Like  all  cowards,  he  had  always  been  inclined  to  bold  and 

93 


94  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

ruthless  action;  but  inclination  was  all  that  ever  had  hap- 
pened. 

Yet,  even  in  his  pitiable  misdemeanours  he  slunk  through 
life  in  terror  of  that  strength  which  never  hesitates  at  vio- 
lence. In  his  petty  pilfering  he  died  a  hundred  deaths  for 
every  trapped  mink  or  otter  he  filched;  he  heard  the  game 
protector's  tread  as  he  slunk  from  the  bagged  trout  brook  or 
crawled  away,  belly  dragging,  and  pockets  full  of  snared 
grouse. 

Always  he  had  dreamed  of  the  day  when,  through  some 
sudden  bold  and  savage  stroke,  he  could  deliver  himself  from 
a  life  of  fear  and  live  in  a  city,  grossly,  replete  with  the 
pleasures  of  satiation,  never  again  to  see  a  tree  or  a  lonely 
lake  or  the  blue  peaks  which,  always,  he  had  hated  because 
they  seemed  to  spy  on  him  from  their  sky-blue  heights. 

They  were  spying  on  him  now  as  he  moved  lightly,  fur- 
tively at  Jake  Kloon's  heels,  meditating  once  more  that 
swift,  bold  stroke  which  forever  would  free  him  from  all 
care  and  fear. 

He  looked  at  the  back  of  Kloon's  massive  head.  One 
shot  would  blow  that  skull  into  fragments,  he  thought, 
shivering. 

One  shot  from  behind, — ^and  twenty  thousand  dollars, — 
or,  if  it  proved  a  better  deal,  the  contents  of  the  packet. 
For,  if  Quintana's  bribery  had  dazzled  them,  what  effect 
might  the  contents  of  that  secret  packet  have  if  revealed? 

Always  in  his  mean  and  busy  brain  he  was  trying  to  figure 
to  himself  what  that  packet  must  contain.  And,  to  make 
the  bribe  worth  while,  ^  '^verett  had  concluded  that  only  a 
solid  packet  of  thousand-dollar  bills  could  account  for  the 
twenty  thousand  offered. 


DROWNED  VALLEY  95 

There  might  easily  be  half  a  million  in  bills  pressed 
together  in  that  heavy,  flat  packet.  Bills  were  absolutely 
safe  plunder.  But  Kloon  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his 
suggestions, — Kloon,  who  never  entertained  ambitions  be- 
yond his  hootch  rake-off, — whose  miserable  imagination 
stopped  at  a  wretched  percentage,  satisfied. 

One  shot!  There  was  the  back  of  Kloon's  bushy  head. 
One  shot ! — and  fear,  which  had  shadowed  him  from  birth, 
was  at  an  end  forever.  Ended,  too,  privation, — the  bitter 
rigour  of  black  winters;  scorching  days;  bodily  squalor; 
ills  that  such  as  he  endured  in  a  wilderness  where,  like  other 
creatures  of  the  wild,  men  stricken  died  or  recovered  by 
chance  alone. 

A  single  shot  would  settle  all  problems  for  him.  .  .  .  But 
if  he  missed?  At  the  mere  idea  he  trembled  as  he  trotted 
on,  trying  to  tell  himself  that  he  couldn't  miss.  No  use; 
always  the  coward's  "if"  blocked  him;  and  the  coward's 
rage, — fiercest  of  all  fury, — ravaged  him,  almost  crazing 
him  with  his  own  impotence. 

Tamaracks,  sphagnum,  crimson  pitcher-plants  grew 
thicker;  wet  woods  set  with  little  black  pools  stretched 
away  on  every  side. 

It  was  still  nearly  a  mile  from  Drowned  Valley  when 
Jake  Kloon  halted  in  his  tracks  and  seated  hmiself  on  a 
narrow  ridge  of  hard  ground.  And  Leverett  came  lightly 
up  and,  after  nosing  the  whole  vicinity,  sat  down  cautiously 
where  Kloon  would  have  to  turn  partly  around  to  look 
at  him. 

"Where  the  hell  do  we  meet  up  with  Quintana?"  growled 


96  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Kloon,  tearing  a  mouthful  from  a  gnawed  tobacco  plug  and 
shoving  the  remainder  deep  into  his  trousers  pocket. 

"We  gotta  travel  a  piece,  yet.  .  .  .  Say,  Jake,  be  you  a 
man  or  be  you  a  poor  dumb  critter  what  ain't  got  no 
spunk  ?" 

Kloon,  chewing  on  his  cud,  turned  and  glanced  at  him. 
Then  he  spat,  as  answer. 

"If  you  got  the  spunk  of  a  chipmunk  you  and  me' 11  take 
a  peek  at  that  there  packet.  I  bet  you  it's  thousand-dollar 
bills — more'n  a  billion  million  dollars,  likely." 

Kloon's  dogged  silence  continued.  Leverett  licked  his  dry 
lips.  His  rifle  lay  on  his  knees.  Almost  imperceptibly  he 
moved  it,  moved  it  again,  froze  stiff  as  Kloon  spat,  then, 
by  infinitesimal  degrees,  continued  to  edge  the  muzzle  to- 
ward Kloon. 

"Jake?" 

"Aw,  shut  your  head/'  grumbled  Kloon  disdainfully. 
"You  alius  was  a  dirty  rat — you  sneakin'  trap  robber. 
Enough's  enough.  I  ain't  got  no  use  for  no  billion  million 
dollar  bills.  Ten  thousand'll  buy  me  all  I  cal'late  to  need 
till  I'm  planted.  But  you're  like  a  hawg;  you  ain't  never 
had  enough  o'  nothin'  and  you  won't  never  git  enough, 
neither, — not  if  you  wuz  God  a'mighty  you  wouldn't." 

"Ten  thousand  dollars  hain't  nothin'  to  a  billion  million, 
Jake." 

Kloon  squirted  a  stream  of  tobacco  at  a  pitcher  plant  and 
filled  the  cup.  Diverted  and  gratified  by  the  accuracy  of 
his  aim,  he  took  other  shots  at  intervals. 

Leverett  moved  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle  a  hair's  width  to 
the  left,  shivered,  moved  it  again.  Under  his  soggy,  sun- 
tanned skin  a  pallour  made  his  visage  sickly  grey. 


DROWNED  VALLEY  97 

"Jake?" 

No  answer. 

"Say,  Jake?" 

No  notice. 

"Jake,  I  wanta  take  a  peek  at  them  bills." 

Merely  another  stream  of  tobacco  soiling  the  crimson 
pitcher. 

"I'm — I'm  desprit.  I  gotta  take  a  peek.  I  gotta — 
gotta " 

Something  in  Leverett's  unsteady  voice  made  Kloon  turn 
his  head. 

"You  gol  rammed  fool,"  he  said,  "what  you  doin'  with 
your " 

The  loud  detonation  of  the  rifle  punctuated  Kloon's  in- 
quiry with  a  final  period.  The  big,  soft-nosed  bullet  struck 
him  full  in  the  face,  spilling  his  brains  and  part  of  his  skull 
down  his  back,  and  knocking  him  flat  as  though  he  had  been 
clubbed. 

Leverett,  stunned,  sat  staring,  motionless,  clutching  the 
rifle  from  the  muzzle  of  which  a  delicate  stain  of  vapour 
floated  and  disappeared  through  a  rosy  bar  of  sunshine. 

In  the  intense  stillness  of  the  place,  suddenly  the  dead  man 
made  a  sound ;  and  the  trap-robber  nearly  fainted. 

But  it  was  only  air  escaping  from  the  slowly  collapsing 
lungs ;  and  Leverett,  ashy  pale,  shaking,  got  to  his  feet  and 
leaned  heavily  against  an  oak  tree,  his  eyes  never  stirring 
from  the  sprawling  thing  on  the  ground. 

If  it  were  a  minute  or  a  year  he  stood  there  he  could  never 
have  reckoned  the  space  of  time.  The  sun's  level  rays 
glimmered  ruddy  through  the  woods.     A  green  fly  appeared, 


98  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

buzzing  about  the  dead  man.  Another  zig-zagged  through 
the  sunshine,  lacing  it  with  streaks  of  greenish  fire.  Others 
appeared,  whirhng,  gyrating,  filling  the  silence  with  their 
humming.  And  still  Leverett  dared  not  budge,  dared  not 
search  the  dead  and  take  from  it  that  for  which  the  dead 
had  died. 

A  little  breeze  came  by  and  stirred  the  bushy  hair  on 
Kloon's  head  and  fluttered  the  ferns  around  him  where  he 
lay. 

Two  delicate,  pure-white  butterflies — rare  survivors  of 
a  native  species  driven  from  civilization  into  the  wilderness 
by  the  advent  of  the  foreign  white — fluttered  in  airy  play 
over  the  dead  man,  drifting  away  into  the  woodland  at  times, 
yet  always  returning  to  wage  a  fairy  combat  above  the  heap 
(of  soiled  clothing  which  once  had  been  a  man. 

Then,  near  in  the  ferns,  the  withering  fronds  twitched, 
and  a  red  squirrel  sprung  his  startling  alarm,  squeaking, 
squealing,  chattering  his  opinion  of  murder;  and  Leverett, 
shaking  with  the  shock,  wiped  icy  sweat  from  his  face,  laid 
aside  his  rifle,  and  took  his  first  stiff  step  toward  the  dead 
man. 

But  as  he  bent  over  he  changed  his  mind,  turned,  reeling 
a  little,  then  crept  slowly  out  among  the  pitcher-plants, 
searching  about  him  as  though  sniffing. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  discovered  what  he  was  looking  for; 
took  his  bearings ;  carefully  picked  his  way  back  over  a  leafy 
crust  that  trembled  under  his  cautious  tread. 

He  bent  over  Kloon  and,  from  the  left  inside  coat  pocket, 
he  drew  the  packet  and  placed  it  inside  his  own  flannel  shirt. 

Then,  turning  his  back  to  the  dead,  he  squatted  down  and 


DROWNED  VALLEY  99 

clutched  Kloon's  burly  ankles,  as  a  man  grasps  the  handles 
of  a  wheelbarrow  to  draw  it  after  him. 

Dragging,  rolling,  bumping  over  roots,  Jake  Kloon  took 
his  last  trail  through  the  wilderness,  leaving  a  redder  path 
than  was  left  by  the  setting  sun  through  fern  and  moss  and 
wastes  of  pitcher-plants. 

Always,  as  Leverett  crept  on,  pulling  the  dead  behind  him, 
the  floor  of  the  woods  trembled  slightly,  and  a  black  ooze 
wet  the  crust  of  withered  leaves. 

At  the  quaking  edge  of  a  little  pool  of  water,  Leverett 
halted.  The  water  was  dark  but  scarcely  an  inch  deep  over 
its  black  bed  of  silt. 

Beside  this  sink  hole  the  trap-thief  dropped  Kloon.  Then 
he  drew  his  hunting  knife  and  cut  a  tall,  slim  swamp  maple. 
The  sapling  was  about  twenty  feet  in  height.  Leverett 
thrust  the  butt  of  it  into  the  pool.  Without  any  effort  he 
pushed  the  entire  sapling  out  of  sight  in  the  depthless  silt. 

He  had  to  manceuvre  very  gingerly  to  dump  Kloon  into 
the  pool  and  keep  out  of  it  himself.     Finally  he  managed  it. 

To  his  alarm,  Kloon  did  not  sink  far.  He  cut  another 
sapling  and  pushed  the  body  until  only  the  shoes  were  visible 
above  the  silt. 

These,  however,  were  very  slowly  sinking,  now.  Bubbles 
rose,  dully  iridescent,  floated,  broke.  Strings  of  blood 
hung  suspended  in  the  clouding  water. 

Leverett  went  back  to  the  little  ridge  and  covered  with 
dead  leaves  the  spot  where  Kloon  had  lain.  There  were 
broken  ferns,  but  he  could  not  straighten  them.  And  there 
lay  Kloon's  rifle. 

For  a  while  he  hesitated,  his  habits  of  economy  being 
ingrained;  but  he  remembered  the  packet  in  his  shirt,  and 


100  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

he  carried  the  rifle  to  the  Httle  pool  and  shoved  it,  muzzle 
first,  driving  it  downward,  out  of  sight. 

As  he  rose  from  the  pool's  edge,  somebody  laid  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

That  was  the  most  real  death  that  Leverett  ever  had  died. 


II 

A  coward  dies  many  times  before  Old  Man  Death  really 
gets  him. 

The  swimming  minutes  passed;  his  mind  ceased  to  live 
for  a  space.  Then,  as  through  the  swirling  waters  of  the 
last  dark  whirlpool,  a  dulled  roar  of  returning  conscious- 
ness filled  his  being. 

Somebody  was  shaking  him,  shouting  at  him.  Suddenly 
instinct  resumed  its  function,  and  he  struggled  madly  to  get 
away  from  the  edge  of  the  sink-hole — fought  his  way, 
blindly,  through  tangled  undergrowth  toward  the  hard  ridge. 
No  human  power  could  have  blocked  the  frantic  creature 
thrashing  toward  solid  ground. 

But  there  Quintana  held  him  in  his  wiry  grip. 

"Fool!  Mule!  Crazee  fellow!  What  you  do,  eh?  For 
why  you  make  jumps  like  rabbits!  Eh?  You  expec'  Quin- 
tana?   Yes?    Alors!" 

Leverett,  in  a  state  of  collapse,  sagged  back  against  an 
oak  tree.  Quintana's  nervous  grasp  fell  from  his  arms  and 
they  swung,  dangling. 

"What  you  do  by  that  pond-hole?  Eh?  I  come  and 
touch  you,  and,  my  God ! — one  would  think  I  have  stab  you. 
Such  an  ass!" 

The  sickly  greenish  hue  changed  in  Leverett's   face  as 


DROWNED  VALLEY  101 

the  warmer  tide  stirred  from  its  stagnation.  He  lifted  his 
head  and  tried  to  look  at  Quintana. 

"Where  Jake  Kloon?"  demanded  the  latter. 

At  that  the  weasel  wits  of  the  trap-robber  awoke  to  the 
instant  crisis.  Blood  and  pulse  began  to  jump.  He  passed 
one  dirty  hand  over  his  mouth  to  mask  any  twitching. 

"Where  my  packet,  eh?"  inquired  Quintana. 

"Jake's  got  it."  Leverett's  voice  was  growing  stronger. 
His  small  eyes  switched  for  an  instant  toward  his  rifle, 
where  it  stood  against  a  tree  behind  Quintana. 

"Where  is  he,  then,  this  Jake?"  repeated  Quintana  im- 
patiently. 

"He  got  bogged." 

"Bogged?    What  is  that,  then?" 

"He  got  into  a  sink-hole." 

"What!" 

"That's  all  I  know,"  said  Leverett,  sullenly.  "Him  and 
me  was  travellin'  hell-bent  to  meet  up  with  you, — Jake,  he 
was  for  a  short  cut  to  Drowned  Valley, — but  'no,'  sez  I, 
'gimme  a  good  hard  ridge  an'  a  long  deetoor  when  there's 
sink-holes  into  the  woods '  " 

"What  is  it  the  talk  you  talk  to  me?"  asked  Quintana, 
whose  perplexed  features  began  to  darken.  "Where  is  it, 
my  packet?" 

"I'm  tellin'  you,  ain't  I?"  retorted  the  other,  raising  a 
voice  now  shrill  with  the  strain  of  this  new  crisis  rushing 
so  unexpectedly  upon  him :  "I  heard  Jake  give  a  holler. 
'What  the  hell's  the  trouble?'  I  yells.  Then  he  lets  out  a 
beller,  'Save  me !'  he  screeches,  'I'm  into  a  sink-hole !  The 
quicksand's  got  me,'  sez  he.     So  I  drop  my  rifle,  I  did, — 


102  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

there  she  stands  against  that  birch  sapling! — and  I  run 
down  into  them  there  pitcher-plants. 

"  'Whar  be  ye !'  I  yells.  Then  I  listens,  and  don't  hear 
nothin'  only  a  kina  wallerin'  noise  an'  a  slobber  like  he  was 
gulpin'  mud. 

"Then  I  f oiler  them  there  sounds  and  I  come  out  by  that 
sink-hole.  The  water  was  a-shakin'  all  over  it  but  Jake  he 
had  went  down  plum  out  o'  sight.  T'want  no  use.  I  cut  a 
sapling  an'  I  poked  down.  I  was  sick  and  scared  like,  so 
when  you  come  up  over  the  moss,  not  makin'  no  noise,  an' 
grabbed  me — God! — I  guess  you'd  jump,  too." 

Quintana's  dark,  tense  face  was  expressionless  when 
Leverett  ventured  to  look  at  him.  Like  most  liars  he  realised 
the  advisability  of  looking  his  victim  straight  in  the  eyes. 
This  he  managed  to  accomplish,  sustaining  the  cold  intensity 
of  Quintana's  gaze  as  long  as  he  deemed  it  necessary.  Then 
he  started  toward  his  rifle.     Quintana  blocked  his  way. 

"Where  my  packet?" 

"Gol  ram  it!  Ain't  I  told  you?  Jake  had  it  in  his 
pocket." 

"My  packet?" 

"Yaas,  yourn." 

"My  packet,  it  is  down  in  thee  sink  'ole?" 

"You  think  I'm  lyin'?"  blustered  Leverett,  trying  to  move 
around  Quintana's  extended  arm.  The  arm  swerved  and 
clutched  him  by  the  collar  of  his  flannel  shirt. 

"Wait,  my  frien',"  said  Quintana  in  a  soft  voice.  "You 
shall  explain  to  me  some  things  before  you  go." 

"Explain  what ! — you  gol  dinged " 

Quintana  shook  him  into  speechlessness. 

"Listen,  my  frien',"  he  continued  with  a  terrifying  smile, 


DROWNED  VALLEY  103 

"I  mus'  ask  you  what  it  was,  that  gun-shot,  which  I  hear 
while  I  await  at  Drown'  Vallee.     Eh?    Who  fire  a  gun?" 

"I  ain't  heard  no  gun,"  repHed  Leverett  in  a  strangled 
voice. 

"You  did  not  shoot?     No?" 

"No!— damn  it  all " 

"And  Jake?    He  did  not  fire?" 

"No,  I  tell  yeh " 

"Ah !  Someone  lies.  It  is  not  me,  my  frien'.  No.  Let 
us  examine  your  rifle " 

Leverett  made  a  rush  for  the  gun;  Quintana  slung  him 
back  against  the  oak  tree  and  thrust  an  automatic  pistol 
against  his  chin. 

"Han's  up,  my  frien',"  he  said  gently,  " — up!  high  up! 
— or  someone  will  fire  another  shot  you  shall  never  hear. 
.  .  .  So!  .  .  .  Now  I  search  the  other  pocket.  ...  So! 
.  .  .  Still  no  packet.  Bah!  Not  in  the  pants,  either?  Ah, 
bah!  'But  wait!  Tiens!  What  is  this  you  hide  inside  your 
shirt ?" 

"I  was  jokin',"  gasped  Leverett;  " — I  was  jest  a-goin'  to 
give  it  to  you " 

"Is  that  my  packet?" 

"Yes.    It  was  all  in  fun ;  I  wan't  a-going  to  steal  it " 

Quintana  unbuttoned  the  grey  wool  shirt,  thrust  in  his 
hand  and  drew  forth  the  packet  for  which  Jake  Kloon  had 
died  within  the  hour. 

Suddenly  Leverett' s  knees  gave  way  and  he  dropped  to 
the  ground,  grovelling  at  Quintana's  feet  in  an  agony  of 
fright : 

"Don't  hurt  me,"  he  screamed,  " — I  didn't  meant  no 
harm!     Jake,  he  wanted  me  to  steal  it.     I  told  him  I  was 


104  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

honest.  I  fired  a  shot  to  scare  him,  an'  he  tuk  an'  run  off ! 
I  wan't  a-goin'  to  steal  it  off  you,  so  help  me  God !  I  was 
lookin'  for  you — as  God  is  my  witness " 

He  got  Quintana  by  one  foot,  Quintana  kicked  him  aside 
and  backed  away. 

"Swine,"  he  said,  calmly  inspecting  the  whimpering  crea- 
ture who  had  started  to  crawl  toward  him. 

He  hesitated,  lifted  his  automatic,  then,  as  though  an- 
noyed by  Leverett's  deafening  shriek,  shrugged,  hesitated, 
pocketed  both  pistol  and  packet,  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

By  the  birch  sapling  he  paused  and  picked  up  Leverett's 
rifle.  Something  left  a  red  smear  on  his  palm  as  he  worked 
the  ejector.     It  was  blood. 

Quintana  gazed  curiously  at  his  soiled  hand.  Then  he 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  empty  cartridge  case  which  had 
been  ejected.  And,  as  he  stooped,  he  noticed  more  blood 
on  a  fallen  leaf. 

With  one  foot,  daintily  as  a  game-cock  scratches,  he 
brushed  away  the  fallen  leaves,  revealing  the  mess  under- 
neath. 

After  he  had  contemplated  the  crimson  traces  of  murder 
for  a  few  moments,  he  turned  and  looked  at  Leverett  with 
faint  curiosity. 

"So,"  he  said  in  his  leisurely,  emotionless  way,  "you  have 
fight  with  my  f rien'  Jake  for  thee  packet.  Yes  ?  Ver'  amus- 
ing." He  shrugged  his  indifference,  tossed  the  rifle  to  his 
shoulder  and,  without  another  glance  at  the  cringing  crea- 
ture on  the  ground,  walked  away  toward  Drowned  Valley, 
unhurriedly. 


DROWNED  VALLEY  105 

III 

When  Ouintana  disappeared  among  the  tamaracks, 
Leverett  ventured  to  rise  to  his  knees.  As  he  crouched  there, 
peering  after  Quintana,  a  man  came  swiftly  out  of  the  forest 
behind  him  and  nearly  stumbled  over  him. 

Recognition  was  instant  and  mutual  as  the  man  jerked 
the  trap-robber  to  his  feet,  stifling  the  muffled  yell  in  his 
throat. 

"I  want  that  packet  you  picked  up  on  Clinch's  veranda," 
said  Hal  Smith. 

"M-my  God,"  stammered  Leverett,  "Quintana  just  took 
it  off  me.    He  ain't  been  gone  a  minute " 

''You  lie!" 

"I  ain't  lyin'.    Look  at  his  foot-marks  there  in  the  mud !" 

"Quintana !" 

"Yaas,  Quintana!     He  tuk  my  gun,  too " 

"Which  way !"  whispered  Smith  fiercely,  shaking  Leverett 
till  his  jaws  wagged. 

"Drowned  Valley.  .  .  .  Lemme  loose! — I'm  chok- 
in' " 

Smith  pushed  him  aside. 

"You  rat,"  he  said,  "if  you're  lying  to  me  FU  come  back 
and  settle  your  affair.    And  Kloon's,  too !" 

"Quintana  shot  Jake  and  stuck  him  into  a  sink-hole !" 
snivelled  Leverett,  breaking  down  and  sobbing;  " — oh.  Gawd 
— Gawd — he's  down  under  all  that  black  mud  with  his  brains 
spillin'  out " 

But  Smith  was  already  gone,  running  lightly  along  the 
string  of  footprints  which  led  straight  away  across  slime 
and  sphagnum  toward  the  head  of  Drowned  Valley. 


106  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

In  the  first  clump  of  hard-wood  trees  Smith  saw  Quin- 
tana.  He  had  halted  and  he  was  fumbling  at  the  twine 
which  bound  a  flat,  paper-wrapped  packet. 

He  did  not  start  when  Smith's  sharp  warning  struck  his 
ear:   "Don't  move!    I've  got  you  over  my  rifle,  Quintana!" 

Quintana's  fingers  had  instantly  ceased  operations.  Then, 
warily,  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  into  the  muzzle  of 
Smith's  rifle. 

"Ah,  bah !"  he  said  tranquilly.  "There  were  three  of  you, 
then." 

"Lay  that  packet  on  the  ground." 

"My  frien' " 

"Drop  it  or  I'll  drop  you!" 

Quintana  carefully  placed  the  packet  on  a  bed  of  vivid 
moss. 

"Now  your  gun!"  continued  Smith. 

Quintana  shrugged  and  laid  Leverett's  rifle  beside  the 
packet. 

"Kneel  down  with  your  hands  up  and  your  back  toward 
me!"  said  Smith. 

"My  frien' " 

"Down  with  you!" 

Quintana  dropped  gracefully  into  the  humiliating  attitude 
popularly  indicative  of  prayerful  supplication.  Smith  walked 
slowly  up  behind  him,  relieved  him  of  two  automatics  and 
a  dirk. 

"Stay  put,"  he  said  sharply,  as  Quintana  started  to  turn 
his  head.  Then  he  picked  up  the  packet  with  its  loosened 
string,  slipped  it  into  his  side  pocket,  gathered  together  the 
arsenal  which  had  decorated  Quintana,  and  so,  loaded  with 


DROWNED  VALLEY  107 

weapons,  walked  away  a  few  paces  and  seated  himself  on  a 
fallen  log. 

Here  he  pocketed  both  automatics,  shoved  the  sheathed 
dirk  into  his  belt,  placed  the  captured  rifle  handy,  after  ex- 
amining the  magazine,  and  laid  his  own  weapon  across  his 
knees. 

"You  may  turn  around  now,  Quintana,"  he  said  amiably. 

Quintana  lowered  his  arms  and  started  to  rise. 

"Sit  down!"  said  Smith. 

Quintana  seated  himself  on  the  moss,  facing  Smith. 

"Now,  my  gay  and  nimble  thimble-rigger,"  said  Smith 
genially,  "while  I  take  ten  minutes'  rest  we'll  have  a  little 
polite  conversation.  Or,  rather,  a  monologue.  Because  I 
don't  want  to  hear  anything  from  you." 

He  settled  himself  comfortably  on  the  log : 

"Let  me  assemble  for  you,  Sefior  Quintana,  the  interest- 
ing history  of  the  jewels  which  so  sparklingly  repose  in  the 
packet  in  my  pocket. 

"In  the  first  place,  as  you  know,  Monsieur  Quintana,  the 
famous  Flaming  Jewel  and  the  other  gems  contained  in  this 
packet  of  mine,  belonged  to  Her  Highness  the  Grand 
Duchess  Theodorica  of  Esthonia. 

"Very  interesting.  More  interesting  still — along  comes 
Don  Jose  Quintana  and  his  celebrated  gang  of  international 
thieves,  and  steals  from  the  Grand  Duchess  of  Esthonia  the 
Flaming  Jewel  and  all  her  rubies,  emeralds  and  diamonds. 
Yes?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Quintana,  with  a  polite  inclination  of 
acknowledgment. 

"Bon !    Well,  then,  still  more  interesting  to  relate,  a  gen- 


108  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

tleman  named  Clinch  helps  himself  to  these  famous  jewels. 
How  very  careless  of  you,  Mr.  Quintana." 

"Careless,  certainly,"  assented  Quintana  politely. 

"Well,"  said  Smith,  laughing,  "Clinch  was  more  careless 
still.  The  robber  baron.  Sir  Jacobus  Kloon,  swiped, — as 
Froissart  has  it, — the  Esthonian  gems,  and,  under  agree- 
ment to  deliver  them  to  you,  I  suppose,  thought  better  of  it 
and  attempted  to  abscond.  Do  you  get  me,  Herr  Quin- 
tana?" 

"Gewiss." 

"Yes,  and  you  got  Jake  Kloon,  I  hear,"  laughed  Smith. 

"No." 

"Didn't  you  kill  Kloon?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  pardon.  The  mistake  was  natural.  You  merely 
robbed  Kloon  and  Leverett.   You  should  have  killed  them." 

"Yes,"  said  Quintana  slowly,  "I  should  have.  It  was  my 
mistake." 

"Signor  Quintana,  it  is  human  for  the  human  crook  to 
err.  Sooner  or  later  he  always  does  it.  And  then  the  Piper 
comes  around  holding  out  two  itching  palms." 

"Mr.  Smith,"  said  Quintana  pleasantly,  "you  are  an  un- 
usually agreeable  gentleman  for  a  thief.  I  regret  that  you 
do  not  see  your  way  to  an  amalgamation  of  interests  with 
myself." 

"As  you  say,  Quintana  mea,  I  am  somewhat  unusual. 
For  example,  what  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  do  with 
this  packet  in  my  pocket?" 

"Live,"  replied  Quintana  tersely. 

"Live,  certainly,"  laughed  Smith,  "but  not  on  the  pro- 
ceeds of  this  coup-de-main.     Non  pas!     I  am  going  to  re- 


DROWNED  VALLEY  109 

turn  this  packe^  to  its  rightful  owner,  the  Grand  Duchess 
Theodorica  of  Esthonia.  And  what  do  you  think  of  that, 
Ouintana?" 

Quintana  smiled. 

"You  do  not  beheve  me?"  inquired  Smith. 

Quintana  smiled  again. 

"Allons,  bon!"  exclaimed  Smith,  rising.  "It's  the  un- 
usual that  happens  in  life,  my  dear  Quintana.  And  now 
we'll  take  a  little  inventory  of  these  marvellous  gems  before 
we  part.  ...  Sit  very,  very  still,  Quintana, — unless  you 
want  to  lie  stiller  still.  .  .  .  I'll  let  you  take  a  modest  peep 

at  the  Flaming  Jewel "  busily  unwrapping  the  packet — 

"just  one  little  peep,  Quintana " 

He  unwrapped  the  paper.  Two  cakes  of  sugar-milk 
chocolate  lay  within. 

Quintana  turned  white,  then  deeply,  heavily  red.  Then 
he  smiled  in  ghastly  fashion: 

"Yes,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "as  you  have  just  said,  sir,  it  is 
usually  the  unusual  which  happens  in  the  world." 


Episode  Six 
THE  JEWEL  AFLAME 


■[\/riKE  CLINCH  and  his  men  "drove"  Star  Peak,  and 
drew  a  blanket  covert. 

There  was  a  new  shanty  atop,  camp  debris,  plenty  of 
signs  of  recent  occupation  everywhere, — hot  embers  in  which 
offal  still  smouldered,  bottles  odorous  of  claret  dregs,  and 
an  aluminum  culinary  outfit,  unwashed,  as  though  Quintana 
and  his  men  had  departed  in  haste. 

Far  in  the  still  valley  below,  Mike  Clinch  squatted  beside 
the  runway  he  had  chosen,  a  cocked  rifle  across  his  knees. 

The  glare  in  his  small,  pale  eyes  waned  and  flared  as  dis- 
tant sounds  broke  the  forest  silence,  grew  vague,  died  out, — 
the  fairy  clatter  of  a  falling  leaf,  the  sudden  scurry  of  a 
squirrel,  a  feathery  rustle  of  swift  wings  in  play  or  combat, 
the  soft  crash  of  a  rotten  bough  sagging  earthward  to  en- 
rich the  soil  that  grew  it. 

And,  as  Clinch  squatted  there,  murderously  intent,  ever 
the  fixed  obsession  burned  in  his  fever  brain,  stirring  his 
thin  lips  to  incessant  muttering, — a  sort  of  soundless  invo- 
cation, part  chronicle,  part  prayer : 

"O  God  A'mighty,  in  your  big,  swell  mansion  up  there, 
all  has  went  contrary  with  me  sence  you  let  that  there  damn 
millionaire,  Harrod,  come  into  this  here   forest.  .  .  .  He 

110 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  111 

went  and  built  unto  hisself  an  habitation,  and  he  put  up  a 
wall  of  law  all  around  me  where  I  was  earnin'  a  lawful  livin' 
in  Thy  nice,  clean  wilderness.  .  .  .  And  now  comes  this  here 
Quintana  and  robs  my  girlie.  ...  I  promised  her  mother 
I'd  make  a  lady  of  her  little  Eve.  ...  I  loved  my  wife,  O 
Lord.  .  .  .  Once  she  showed  me  a  piece  in  the  Bible, — I 
ain't  never  found  it  sence, — but  it  said :  'And  the  woman 
she  fled  into  the  wilderness  where  there  was  a  place  prepared 
for  her  of  God.'  .  .  .  That's  what  you  wrote  into  your  own 
Bible,  O  God !    You  can't  go  back  on  it.    I  seen  it. 

"And  now  I  wanta  to  ask,  What  place  did  you  prepare 
for  my  Eve  ?  What  spot  have  you  reference  to  ?  You  didn't 
mean  my  'Dump,'  did  you?  Why,  Lord,  that  ain't  no  place 
for  no  lady.  .  .  .  And  now  Quintana  has  went  and  robbed 
me  of  what  I'd  saved  up  for  Eve.  .  .  .  Does  that  go  with 
Thee,  O  Lord?  No,  it  don't.  And  it  don't  go  with  me, 
neither.  I'm  a-goin'  to  git  Quintana.  Then  I'm  a-goin'  to 
git  them  two  minks  that  robbed  my  girlie, — I  am!  .  .  . 
Jake  Kloon,  he  done  it  in  cahoots  with  Earl  Leverett;  and 
Quintana  set  'em  on.  And  they  gotta  die,  O  Lord  of  Israel, 
them  there  Egyptians  is  about  to  hop  the  twig.  ...  I  ain't 
aimin'  to  be  mean  to  nobody.  I  buy  hootch  of  them  that 
runs  it.  I  eat  mountain  mutton  in  season  and  out.  I  trade 
with  law-breakers,  I  do.  But,  Lord,  I  gotta  get  my  girlie 
outa  here;  and  Harrod  he  walled  me  in  with  the  chariots 
and  spears  of  Egypt,  till  I  nigh  went  wild.  .  .  .  And  now 
comes  Quintana,  and  here  I  be  a-lyin'  out  to  get  him  so's 
my  girlie  can  become  a  lady,  same's  them  fine  folks  with  all 
their  butlers  and  automobiles  and  what-not " 

A  far  crash  in  the  forest  stilled  his  twitching  lips  and 
stiffened  every  iron  muscle. 


112  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

As  he  lifted  his  rifle,  Sid  Hone  came  into  the  glade. 

"Yahoo!   Yahoo!"  he  called.     "Where  be  you,  Mike?" 

Clinch  slowly  rose,  grasping  his  rifle,  his  small,  grey  eyes 
ablaze. 

"Where's  Quintana?"  he  demanded. 

"H'ain't  you  seen  nobody?" 

"No." 

In  the  intense  silence  other  sounds  broke  sharply  in  the 
sunset  forest ;  Harvey  Chase's  halloo  rang  out  from  the  rocks 
above;  Blommers  and  the  Hastings  boys  came  slouching 
through  the  ferns. 

Byron  Hastings  greeted  Clinch  with  upflung  gun:  "Me 
and  Jim  heard  a  shot  away  out  on  Drowned  Valley,"  he  an- 
nounced.   "Was  you  out  that  way,  Mike." 

"No." 

One  by  one  the  men  who  had  driven  Star  Peak  lounged 
up  in  the  red  sunset  light,  gathering  around  Clinch  and 
wiping  the  sweat  from  sun-reddened  faces. 

"Someone's  in  Drowned  Valley,"  repeated  Byron. 
"Them  minks  slid  ofif'n  Star  in  a  hurry,  I  reckon,  judgin* 
how  they  left  their  shanty.  Phew!  It  stunk!  They  had 
French  hootch,  too." 

"Mebby  Leverett  and  Kloon  told  'em  we  was  fixin'  to 
visit  them,"  suggested  Blommers. 

"They  didn't  know,"  said  Clinch. 

"Where's  Hal  Smith?"  inquired  Hone. 

Clinch  made  no  reply.  Blommers  silently  gnawed  a  new 
quid  from  the  remains  of  a  sticky  plug. 

"Well,"  inquired  Jim  Hastings  finally,  "do  we  quit,  Mike, 
or  do  we  still-hunt  in  Drowned  Valley?" 

"Not  me,  at  night,"  remarked  Blommers  drily. 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  113 

"Not  amongst  them  sink-holes,"  added  Hone. 

Suddenly  Clinch  turned  and  stared  at  him.  Then  the 
deadly  light  from  his  little  eyes  shone  on  the  others  one  by 
one. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "I  gotta  get  Quintana.  I  can't  never 
sleep  another  wink  till  I  get  that  man.  Come  on.  Act  up 
like  gents  all.    Let's  go." 

Nobody  stirred. 

"Come  on,"  repeated  Clinch  softly.  But  his  lips  shrank 
back,  twitching. 

As  they  looked  at  him  they  saw  his  teeth. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  growled  Hone,  shouldering  his  rifle 
with  a  jerk. 

The  Hastings  boys,  young  and  rash,  shuffled  into  the 
trail.  Blommers  hesitated,  glanced  askance  at  Clinch,  and 
instantly  made  up  his  mind  to  take  a  chance  with  the  sink- 
holes rather  than  with  Clinch. 

"God  A'mighty,  Mike,  what  be  you  aimin'  to  do?"  fal- 
tered Harvey. 

"I'm  aimin'  to  stop  the  inlet  and  outlet  to  Drowned  Val- 
ley, Harve,"  replied  Clinch  in  his  pleasant  voice.  "God  is 
a-goin'  to  deliver  Quintana  into  my  hands." 

"All  right.     What  next?" 

"Then,"  continued  Clinch,  "I  cal'late  to  set  down  and 
wait." 

"How  long?" 

"Ask  God,  boys.  I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is  that  what- 
ever is  livin'  in  Drowned  Valley  at  this  hour  has  gotta  live 
and  die  there.  For  it  can't  never  live  to  come  outen  that 
there  morass  walkin'  onto  two  legs  like  a  real  man." 


114  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

He  moved  slowly  along  the  file  of  sullen  men,  his  rifle 
a-trail  in  one  huge  fist. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "I  got  first.  There  ain't  no  sink-hole 
deep  enough  to  drowned  me  while  Eve  needs  me.  .  .  .  And 
my  little  girlie  needs  me  bad.  .  .  .  After  she  gits  what's 
her'n,  then  I  don't  care  no  more.  .  .  ."  He  looked  up  into 
the  sky,  where  the  last  ashes  of  sunset  faded  from  the  zenith. 
.  .  .  'Then  I  don't  care,"  he  murmured.  "Like's  not  I'll 
creep  away  like  some  shot-up  critter,  n'kinda  find  some  lone, 
safe  spot,  n'kinda  fix  me  f'r  a  long  nap.  ...  I  guess  that'll 
be  the  way  .  .  .  when  Eve's  a  lady  down  to  Noo  York 
'r'som'ers "  he  added  vaguely. 

Then,  still  looking  up  at  the  fading  heavens,  he  moved 
forward,  head  lifted,  silent,  unhurried,  with  the  soundless, 
stealthy,  and  certain  tread  of  those  who  walk  unseeing  and 
asleep. 

II 

Clinch  had  not  taken  a  dozen  strides  before  Hal  Smith 
loomed  up  ahead  in  the  rosy  dusk,  driving  in  Leverett  be- 
fore him. 

An  exclamation  of  fierce  exultation  burst  from  Clinch's 
thin  lips  as  he  flung  out  one  arm,  indicating  Smith  and  his 
clinking  prisoner : 

"Who  was  that  gol-dinged  catamount  that  suspicioned 
Hal?  I  wa'nt  worried  none,  neither.  Hal's  a  gent.  Mebbe 
he  sticks  up  folks,  too,  but  he's  a  gent.  And  gents  is  honest 
or  they  ain't  gents." 

Smith  came  up  at  his  easy,  tireless  gait,  hustling  Leverett 
along  with  prods  from  gun-butt  or  muzzle,  as  came  handiest. 

The  prisoner  turned  a  ghastly  visage  on  Clinch,  who 
ignored  him. 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  115 

"Got  my  packet,  Hal?"  he  demanded. 

Smith  poked  Leverett  with  his  rifle:  "Tune  up,"  he  said; 
"tell  Clinch  your  story." 

As  a  caged  rat  looks  death  in  the  face,  his  ratty  wits  work- 
ing like  lightning  and  every  atom  of  cunning  and  ferocity 
alert  for  attack  or  escape,  so  the  little,  mean  eyes  of  Earl 
Leverett  became  fixed  on  Clinch  like  two  immobile  and  glassy 
beads  of  jet. 

"G'wan,"  said  Clinch  softly,  "spit  it  out." 

"Jake  done  it,"  muttered  Leverett,  thickly. 

"Done  what?" 

"Stole  that  there  packet  o'  yourn — whatever  there  was 
into  it." 

"Who  put  him  up  to  it?" 

"A  fella  called  Quintana." 

"What  was  there  in  it  for  Jake?"  inquired  Clinch  pleas- 
antly. 

"Ten  thousand." 

"How  about  you?" 

"I  told  'em  I  wouldn't  touch  it.  Then  they  pulled  their 
guns  on  me,  and  I  was  scared  to  squeal." 

"So  that  was  the  way?"  asked  Clinch  in  his  even,  reassur- 
ing voice. 

Leverett's  eyes  travelled  stealthily  around  the  circle  of 
men,  then  reverted  to  Clinch. 

"I  dassn't  touch  it,"  he  said,  "but  I  dassn't  squeal.  .  .  . 
I  was  huntin'  onto  Drowned  Valley  when  Jake  meets  up 
with  me." 

"  T  got  the  packet,'  he  sez,  'and  I'm  a-going  to  double 
criss-cross  Quintana,  I  am,  and  beat  it.  Don't  you  wish  you 
was  whacks  with  me?' 


116  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"  *No,'  sez  I,  'honesty  is  my  policy,  no  matter  what  they 
tell  about  me.  S'help  me  God,  I  ain't  never  robbed  no  trap 
and  I  ain't  no  skin  thief,  whatever  lies  folks  tell.  All  I  ever 
done  was  run  a  little  hootch,  same's  everybody.'  " 

He  licked  his  lips  furtively,  his  cold,  bright  eyes  fastened 
on  Clinch. 

"G'wan,  Earl,"  nodded  the  latter,  "heave  her  up." 

'That's  all.  I  sez,  'Good-bye,  Jake.  An'  if  you  heed  my 
warnin',  ill-gotten  gains  ain't  a-going  to  prosper  nobody.' 
That's  what  I  said  to  Jake  Kloon,  the  last  solemn  words  I 
spoke  to  that  there  man  now  in  his  bloody  grave " 

"Hey?"  demanded  Clinch. 

"That's  where  Jake  is,"  repeated  Leverett.  "Why,  so 
help  me,  I  wa'nt  gone  ten  yards  when,  bang!  goes  a  gun,  and 
I  see  this  here  Quintana  come  outen  the  bush,  I  do,  and  walk 
up  to  Jake  and  frisk  him,  and  Jake  still  a-kickin'  the  moss 
to  slivers.    Yessir,  that's  what  I  seen." 

"G'wan." 

"Yessir.  .  .  .  'N'then  Quintana  he  shoved  Jake  into  a 
sink-hole.  Thaswot  I  seen  with  my  two  eyes.  Yessir. 
'N'then  Quintana  he  run  off,  'n'l  jest  set  down  in  the  trail,  I 
did;  'n'then  Hal  come  up  and  acted  like  I  had  stole  your 
packet,  he  did;  'n'then  I  told  him  what  Quintana  done. 
'N'Hal,  he  takes  after  Quintana,  but  I  don't  guess  he  meets 
up  with  him,  for  he  come  back  and  ketched  holt  o'  me,  'n'he 
druv  me  in  like  I  was  a  caaf,  he  did.     'N'here  I  be." 

The  dusk  in  the  forest  had  deepened  so  that  the  men's 
faces  had  become  mere  blotches  of  grey. 

Smith  said  to  Clinch:  "That's  his  story,  Mike.  But  I 
preferred  he  should  tell  it  to  you  himself,  so  I  brought  him 
along.  .  .  .  Did  you  drive  Star  Peak?" 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  117 

"There  wa'nt  nothin'  onto  it,"  said  Clinch  very  softly. 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  his  shadowy  visage  became  contorted  and 
he  jerked  up  his  rifle  and  threw  a  cartridge  into  the  maga- 
zine. 

"You  dirty  louse!"  he  roared  at  Leverett,  "you  was  into 
this,  too,  a-robbin'  my  little  Eve " 

"Run!"  yelled  somebody,  giving  Leverett  a  violent  shove 
into  the  woods. 

In  the  darkness  and  confusion.  Clinch  shouldered  his  way 
out  of  the  circle  and  fired  at  the  crackling  noise  that  marked 
Leverett's  course, — fired  again,  lower,  and  again  as  a  dis- 
tant crash  revealed  the  frenzied  flight  of  the  trap-robber. 
After  he  had  fired  a  fourth  shot,  somebody  struck  up  his 
rifle. 

"Aw,"  said  Jim  Hastings,  "that  ain't  no  good.  You  act 
up  like  a  kid,  Mike.  'Tain't  so  far  to  Ghost  Lake,  n'them 
Troopers  might  hear  you." 

After  a  silence,  Clinch  spoke,  his  voice  heavy  with  reac- 
tion: 

"Into  that  there  packet  is  my  little  girl's  dower.  It's  all 
I  got  to  give  her.  It's  all  she's  got  to  make  her  a  lady.  I'll 
kill  any  man  that  robs  her  or  that  helps  rob  her.  'N'that's 
that." 

"Are  you  going  on  after  Quintana?"  asked  Smith. 

"I  am.  'N'these  fellas  are  a-going  with  me.  N'  I  want 
you  should  go  back  to  my  Dump  and  look  after  my  girlie 
while  I'm  gone." 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  be  away?" 

"I  dunno." 

There  was  a  silence.     Then, 


118  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"All  right,"  said  Smith,  briefly.  He  added:  "Look  out 
for  sink-holes,  Mike." 

Clinch  tossed  his  heavy  rifle  to  his  shoulder :  "Let's  go," 
he  said  in  his  pleasant,  misleading  way,  " — and  I'll  shoot  the 
guts  outa  any  fella  that  don't  show  up  at  roll  call. 

Ill 

For  its  size  there  is  no  fiercer  animal  than  a  rat. 

Rat-like  rage  possessed  Leverett.  In  his  headlong  flight 
through  the  dusk,  fear,  instead  of  quenching,  added  to  his 
rage;  and  he  ran  on  and  on,  crashing  through  the  under- 
growth, made  wilder  by  the  pain  of  vicious  blows  from 
branches  which  flew  back  and  struck  him  in  the  dark. 

Thorns  bled  him;  unseen  logs  tripped  him;  he  heard 
Clinch's  bullets  whining  around  him ;  and  he  ran  on,  begin- 
ning to  sob  and  curse  in  a  frenzy  of  fury,  fear,  and  shame. 

Shots  from  Clinch's  rifle  ceased;  the  fugitive  dropped 
into  a  heavy,  shuffling  walk,  slavering,  gasping,  gesticulating 
with  his  weaponless  fists  in  the  darkness. 

"Gol  ram  ye,  I'll  fix  ye !"  he  kept  stammering  in  his  snar- 
ling, jangling  voice,  broken  by  sobs.  "I'll  learn  ye,  yeh 
poor  danged  thing,  gol  ram  ye " 

An  unseen  limb  struck  him  cruelly  across  the  face,  and  a 
moose-bush  tripped  him  flat.  Almost  crazed,  he  got  up, 
yelling  in  his  pain,  one  hand  wet  and  sticky  from  blood  well- 
ing up  from  his  cheek-bone. 

He  stood  listening,  infuriated,  vindictive,  but  heard  noth- 
ing save  the  panting,  animal  sounds  in  his  own  throat. 

He  strove  to  see  in  the  ghostly  obscurity  around  him,  but 
could  make  out  little  except  the  trees  close  by. 

But  wood-rats  are  never  completely  lost  in  their  native 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  119 

darkness;  and  Leverett  presently  discovered  the  far  stars 
shining  faintly  through  rifts  in  the  phantom  foliage  above. 

These  heavenly  signals  were  sufficient  to  give  him  his  di- 
rections. Then  the  question  suddenly  came,  which  direc- 
tion? 

To  his  own  shack  on  Stinking  Lake  he  dared  not  go.  He 
tried  to  believe  that  it  was  fear  of  Clinch  that  made  him  shy 
of  the  home  shanty;  but,  in  his  cowering  soul,  he  knew  it 
was  fear  of  another  kind — the  deep,  superstitious  horror  of 
Jake  Kloon's  empty  bunk — the  repugnant  sight  of  Kloon's 
spare  clothing  hanging  from  its  peg — the  dead  man's 
shoes 

No,  he  could  not  go  to  Stinking  Lake  and  sleep.  .  .  . 
And  wake  with  the  faint  stench  of  sulphur  in  his  throat. 
.  .  .  And  see  the  worm-like  leeches  unfolding  in  the  shal- 
lows, and  the  big,  reddish  water-lizard^  livid  as  skinned 
eels,  wriggling  convulsively  toward  their  sunless  lairs.  .  .  . 

At  the  mere  thought  of  his  dead  bunk-mate  he  sought  re- 
lief in  vindictive  rage — stirred  up  the  smouldering  embers 
again,  cursed  Clinch  and  Hal  Smith,  violently  searching  in 
his  inflamed  brain  some  instant  vengeance  upon  these  men 
who  had  driven  him  out  from  the  only  place  on  earth  where 
he  knew  how  to  exist — the  wilderness. 

All  at  once  he  thought  of  Clinch's  step-daughter.  The 
thought  instantly  scared  him.  Yet — what  a  revenge! — to 
strike  Clinch  through  the  only  creature  he  cared  for  in  all 
the  world !  .  .  ,  What  a  revenge !  .  .  ,  Clinch  was  headed 
for  Drowned  Valley.  Eve  Strayer  was  alone  at  the  Dump. 
.  .  .  Another  thought  flashed  like  lightning  across  his  turbid 
mind; — the  packet! 


120  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Bribed  by  Quintana,  Jake  Kloon,  lurking  at  Clinch's  door, 
had  heard  him  direct  Eve  to  take  a  packet  to  Owl  Marsh,  and 
had  notified  Quintana. 

Wittingly  or  unwittingly,  the  girl  had  taken  a  packet  of 
sugar-milk  chocolate  instead  of  the  priceless  parcel  expected. 

Again,  carried  in,  exhausted,  by  a  State  Trooper,  Jake 
Kloon  had  been  fooled ;  and  it  was  the  packet  of  sugar-milk 
chocolate  that  Jake  had  purloined  from  the  veranda  where 
Clinch  kicked  it.  For  two  cakes  of  chocolate  Kloon  had 
died.  For  two  cakes  of  chocolate  he.  Earl  Leverett,  had 
become  a  man-slayer,  a  homeless  fugitive  in  peril  of  his  life. 

He  stood  licking  his  blood-dried  lips  there  in  the  dark- 
ness, striving  to  hatch  courage  out  of  the  dull  fury  eating 
at  a  coward's  heart. 

Somewhere  in  Clinch's  Dump  was  the  packet  that  would 
make  him  rich.  .  .  .  Here  was  his  opportunity.  He  had 
only  to  dare;  and  pain  and  poverty  and  fear — above  all  else 
fear — would  end  forever!  .  .  . 

When,  at  last,  he  came  out  to  the  edge  of  Clinch's  clear- 
ing, the  dark  October  heavens  were  but  a  vast  wilderness 
of  stars. 

Star  Pond,  set  to  its  limpid  depths  with  the  heavenly 
gems,  glittered  and  darkled  with  its  million  diamond  in- 
crustations. The  humped-up  lump  of  Clinch's  Dump 
crouched  like  some  huge  and  feeding  night-beast  on  the 
bank,  ringed  by  the  solemn  forest. 

There  was  a  kerosene  lamp  burning  in  Eve  Strayer's 
rooms.     Another  light — a  candle — flickered  in  the  kitchen. 

Leverett,  crouching,  ran  rat-like  down  to  the  barn,  slid  in 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  121 

between  the  ice  house  and  corn-crib,  crawled  out  among  the 
wilderness  of  weeds  and  lay  flat. 

The  light  burned  steadily  from  Eve's  window. 

IV 

From  his  form  among  frost-blackened  rag-weeds,  the 
trap-robber  could  see  only  the  plastered  ceiling  of  the  bed 
chamber. 

But  the  kerosene  lamp  cast  two  shadows  on  that — tall 
shadows  of  human  shapes  that  stirred  at  times. 

The  trap-robber,  scared,  stiffened  to  immobility,  but  his 
little  eyes  remained  fastened  on  the  camera  obscura  above. 
All  the  cunning,  patience,  and  murderous  immobility  of  the 
rat  were  his. 

Not  a  weed  stirred  under  the  stars  where  he  lay  with  tiny, 
unwinking  eyes  intent  upon  the  shadows  on  the  ceiling. 

The  shadows  on  the  ceiling  were  cast  by  Eve  Strayer  and 
her  State  Trooper.  ^ 

Eve  sat  on  her  bed's  edge,  swathed  in  a  lilac  silk  kimona 
— delicate  relic  of  school  days.  Her  bandaged  feet,  crossed, 
dangled  above  the  rag-rug  on  the  floor;  her  slim,  tanned 
fingers  were  interlaced  over  the  book  on  her  lap. 

Near  the  door  stood  State  Trooper  Stormont,  spurred, 
booted,  trig  and  trim,  an  undecided  and  flushed  young  man, 
fumbling  irresolutely  with  the  purple  cord  on  his  campaign- 
hat. 

The  book  on  Eve's  knees — another  relic  of  the  past — ^was 
Sigurd  the  Volsiing.  Stormont  had  been  reading  to  her — 
they  having  found,  after  the  half  shy  tentatives  of  new 
friends,  a  point  d'appui  in  literature.  And  the  girl,  admitting 


U2  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

a  passion  for  the  poets,  invited  him  to  inspect  the  bookcase 
of  unpainted  pine  which  Clinch  had  built  into  her  bedroom 
wall. 

Here  it  was  he  discovered  mutual  friends  among  the 
nobler  Victorians — surprised  to  discover  Sigurd  there — and, 
carrying  it  to  her  bedside,  looked  leisurely  through  the  half 
forgotten  pages. 

"Would  you  read  a  little?"  she  ventured. 

He  blushed  but  did  his  best.  His  was  an  agreeable,  boyish 
voice,  betraying  taste  and  understanding.  Time  passed 
quickly — not  so  much  in  the  reading  but  in  the  conversa- 
tions intervening. 

And  now,  made  uneasy  by  chance  consultation  with  his 
wrist-watch,  and  being  rather  a  conscientious  young  man, 
he  had  risen  and  had  informed  Eve  that  she  ought  to  go  to 
sleep. 

And  she  had  denounced  the  idea,  almost  fretfully. 

"Even  if  you  go  I  shan't  sleep  till  daddy  comes,"  she 
said.  "Of  course,"  she  added,  smiling  at  him  out  of  gentian- 
blue  eyes,  "if  you  are  sleepy  I  shouldn't  dream  of  asking  you 
to  stay." 

"I'm  not  intending  to  sleep." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Take  a  chair  on  the  landing  outside  your  door." 

"What!" 

"Certainly.    What  did  you  expect  me  to  do,  Eve?" 

"Go  to  bed,  of  course.  The  beds  in  the  guest  rooms  are 
all  made  up." 

"Your  father  didn't  expect  me  to  do  that,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing. 

"I'm  not  afraid,  as  long  as  you're  in  the  house,"  she  said. 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  123 

She  looked  up  at  him  again,  wistfully.  Perhaps  he  was 
restless,  bored,  sitting  there  beside  her  half  the  day,  and, 
already,  half  the  night.  Men  of  that  kind — active,  nervous 
young  men  accustomed  to  the  open,  can't  stand  caging. 

"I  want  you  to  go  out  and  get  some  fresh  air,"  she  said. 
"It's  a  wonderful  night.     Go  and  walk  a  while.     And — if 


you  feel  like — coming  back  to  me " 

"Will  you  sleep?" 

"No,  I'll  wait  for  you." 

Her  words  were  natural  and  direct,  but  in  their  simplicity 
there  seemed  a  delicate  sweetness  that  stirred  him. 

"I'll  come  back  to  you,"  he  said. 

Then,  in  his  response,  the  girl  in  her  turn  became  aware 
of  something  beside  the  simple  words — a  vague  charm  about 
them  that  faintly  haunted  her  after  he  had  gone  away  down 
the  stairs. 

That  was  the  man  she  had  once  tried  to  kill !  At  the  sud- 
den and  terrible  recollection  she  shivered  from  curly  head 
to  bandaged  feet.  Then  she  trembled  a  little  with  the 
memory  of  his  lips  against  her  bruised  hands — bruised  by 
handcuffs  which  he  had  fastened  upon  her. 

She  sat  very,  very  still  now,  huddled  on  the  bed's  edge, 
scarcely  breathing. 

For  the  girl  was  beginning  to  dare  formulate  the  deepest 
of  any  thoughts  that  ever  had  stirred  her  virgin  mind  and 
body. 

If  it  was  love,  then  it  had  come  suddenly,  and  strangely. 
It  had  come  on  that  day — at  the  very  moment  when  he  flung 
her  against  the  tree  and  handcuffed  her — that  terrible  in- 
stant— if  it  were  love. 

Or — what  was  it  that  so  delicately  overwhelmed  her  with 


124  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

pleasure  in  his  presence,  in  his  voice,  in  the  Hght,  firm  sound 
of  his  spurred  tread  on  the  veranda  below? 

Friendship  ?  A  lonely  passion  for  young  and  decent  com- 
panionship? The  clean  youth  of  him  in  contrast  to  the 
mangy,  surly  louts  who  haunted  Clinch's  Dump, — was  that 
the  appeal? 

Listening  there  where  she  sat  clasping  the  book,  she  heard 
his  steady  tread  patrolling  the  veranda;  caught  the  faint 
fragrance  of  his  brier  pipe  in  the  still  night  air. 

"I  think — I  think  it's — love,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 
.  .  .  "But  he  couldn't  ever  think  of  me "  always  listen- 
ing to  his  spurred  tread  below. 

After  a  while  she  placed  both  bandaged  feet  on  the  rug. 
It  hurt  her,  but  she  stood  up,  walked  to  the  open  window. 
She  wanted  to  look  at  him — just  a  moment 

By  chance  he  looked  up  at  that  instant,  and  saw  her  pale 
face,  like  a  flower  in  the  starlight. 

"Why,  Eve,"  he  said,  "you  ought  not  to  be  on  your  feet." 

"Once,"  she  said,  "you  weren't  so  particular  about  my 
bruises," 

Her  breathless  little  voice  coming  down  through  the  star- 
light thrilled  him. 

"Do  you  remember  what  I  did?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  You  bruised  my  hands  and  made  my  mouth 
bleed." 

"I  did  penance — for  your  hands." 

"Yes,  you  kissed  them!" 

What  possessed  her — what  irresponsible  exhilaration  was 
inciting  her  to  a  daring  utterly  foreign  to  her  nature  ?  She 
heard  herself  laugh,  knew  that  she  was  young,  pretty, 
capable  of  provocation.     And  in  a  sudden,  breathless  sort 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  125 

of  way  an  overwhelming  desire  seized  her  to  please,  to  charm, 
to  be  noticed  by  such  a  man — whatever,  on  afterthought, 
he  might  think  of  the  step-child  of  Mike  Clinch. 

Stormont  had  come  directly  under  her  window  and  stood 
looking  up. 

"I  dared  not  offer  further  penance,"  he  said. 

The  emotion  in  his  voice  stirred  her — but  she  was  still 
laughing  down  at  him. 

She  said :  "You  did  offer  further  penance — you  offered 
your  handkerchief.  So — as  that  was  all  you  offered  as 
reparation  for — my  lips " 

"Eve !    I  could  have  taken  you  Into  my  arms " 


"You  did!  And  threw  me  down  among  the  spruces.  You 
really  did  everything  that  a  contrite  heart  could  suggest " 

"Good  heavens!"  said  that  rather  matter-of-fact  young 
man,  "I  don't  believe  you  have  forgiven  me  after  all." 

"I  have — everything  except  the  handkerchief " 

"Then  I'm  coming  up  to  complete  my  penance " 

"I'll  lock  my  door!" 

"Would  you?" 

"I  ought  to.  .  .  .  But  if  you  are  in  great  spiritual  dis- 
tress, and  if  you  really  and  truly  repent,  and  if  you  humbly 

desire  to  expiate  your  sin  by  doing — penance "  And 

hesitated:  "Do  you  so  desire?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Humbly?    Contritely?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.    Say  'Mea  culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa.'  " 

"Mea  maxima  culpa,"  he  said  so  earnestly,  looking  up 
into  her  face  that  she  bent  lower  over  the  sill  to  see  him. 

"Let  me  come  up,  Eve,"  he  said. 


126  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

She  strove  to  laugh,  gazing  down  into  his  shadowy  face 
— ^but  suddenly  the  desire  had  left  her, — and  all  her  gaiety 
left  her,  too,  suddenly,  leaving  only  a  still  excitement  in  her 
breast. 

"You — you  knew  I  was  just  laughing,"  she  said  un- 
steadily.   "You  understood,  didn't  you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

After  a  silence :  "I  didn't  mean  you  to  take  me  seriously," 
she  said.  She  tried  to  laugh.  It  was  no  use.  And,  as  she 
leaned  there  on  the  sill,  her  heart  frightened  her  with  its 
loud  beating. 

"Will  you  let  me  come  up,  Eve  ?" 

No  answer. 

"Would  you  lock  your  door?" 

"What  do  you  think  I'd  do?"  she  asked  tremulously. 

"You  know;  I  don't." 

"Are  you  so  sure  I  know  what  I'd  do?  I  don't  think 
either  of  us  know  our  own  minds.  ...  I  seem  to  have  lost 
some  of  my  wits.  .  .  .  Somehow.  .  .  ." 

"If  you  are  not  going  to  sleep,  let  me  come  up." 

"I  want  you  to  take  a  walk  down  by  the  pond.  And  while 
you're  walking  there  all  by  yourself,  I  want  you  to  think 
very  clearly,  very  calmly,  and  make  up  your  mind  whether 
I  should  remain  awake  to-night,  or  whether,  when  you  re- 
turn, I  ought  to  be  asleep  and — and  my  door  bolted." 

After  a  long  pause :  "All  right,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

V 

She  saw  him  walk  away — saw  his  shadowy,  well-built 
form  fade  into  the  starlit  mist. 

An  almost  uncontrollable  impulse  set  her  throat  and  lips 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  127 

quivering  with  desire  to  call  to  him  through  the  night,  "I 
do  love  you!  I  do  love  you!  Come  back  quickly, 
quickly! " 

Fog  hung  over  Star  Pond,  edging  the  veranda,  rising  in 
frail  shreds  to  her  window.  The  lapping  of  the  water 
sounded  very  near.  An  owl  was  very  mournful  in  the  hem- 
locks. 

The  girl  turned  from  the  window,  looked  at  the  door  for 
a  moment,  then  her  face  flushed  and  she  walked  toward  a 
chair  and  seated  herself,  leaving  the  door  unbolted. 

For  a  little  while  she  sat  upright,  alert,  as  though  a  little 
frightened.  After  a  few  moments  she  folded  her  hands 
and  sat  unstirring,  with  lowered  head,  awaiting  Destiny. 

It  came,  noiselessly.  And  so  swiftly  that  the  rush  of  air 
from  her  violently  opened  door  was  what  first  startled  her. 

For  in  the  same  second  Earl  Leverett  was  upon  her  in 
his  stockinged  feet,  one  bony  hand  gripping  her  mouth,  the 
other  flung  around  her,  pinning  both  arms  to  her  sides. 

"The  packet!"  he  panted,  " — quick,  yeh  dirty  little  cat, 
'rT'll  break  yeh  head  off 'n  yeh  damn  neck !" 

She  bit  at  the  hand  that  he  held  crushed  against  her 
mouth.  He  lifted  her  bodily,  flung  her  onto  the  bed,  and, 
twisting  sheet  and  quilt  around  her,  swathed  her  to  the 
throat. 

Still  controlling  her  violently  distorted  lips  with  his  left 
hand  and  holding  her  so,  one  knee  upon  her,  he  reached  back, 
unsheathed  his  hunting  knife,  and  pricked  her  throat  till  the 
blood  spurted. 

"Now,  gol  ram  yeh!"  he  whispered  fiercely,   "where's 


128  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Mike's  packet?  Yell,  and  I'll  hog-stick  yeh  fur  fair!  Where 
is  it,  you  dum  thing!" 

He  took  his  left  hand  from  her  mouth.  The  distorted, 
scarlet  lips  writhed  back,  displaying  her  white  teeth 
clenched. 

"Where's  Mike's  bundle!"  he  repeated,  hoarse  with  rage 
and  fear. 

"You  rat!"  she  gasped. 

At  that  he  closed  her  mouth  again,  and  again  he  pricked 
her  with  his  knife,  cruelly.  The  blood  willed  up  onto  the 
sheets. 

"Now,  by  God!"  he  said  in  a  ghastly  voice,  "answer  or 
I'll  hog-stick  yeh  next  time!  Where  is  it?  Where! 
where !" 

She  only  showed  her  teeth  in  answer.    Her  eyes  flamed. 

"Where !  Quick !  Gol  ding  yeh,  I'll  shove  this  knife  in 
behind  your  ear  if  you  don't  tell!  Go  on.  Where  is  it? 
It's  in  this  Dump  som'ers.  I  know  it  is — don't  lie!  You 
want  that  I  should  stick  you  good  ?  That  what  you  want — 
you  dirty  little  dump-slut?  Well,  then,  gol  ram  yeh — I'll 
fix  yeh  like  Quintana  was  aimin'  at " 

He  slit  the  sheet  downward  from  her  imprisoned  knees, 
seized  one  wounded  foot  and  tried  to  slash  the  bandages. 

"I'll  cut  a  coupla  toes  off'n  yeh,"  he  snarled,  " — I'll  ham- 
string yeh  fur  keeps !" — struggling  to  mutilate  her  while  she 
flung  her  helpless  and  entangled  body  from  side  to  side  and 
bit  at  the  hand  that  was  .almost  suffocating  her. 

Unable  to  hold  her  any  longer,  he  seized  a  pillow,  to  bury 
the  venomous  little  head  that  writhed,  biting,  under  his 
clutch. 

As  he  lifted  it  he  saw  a  packet  lying  under  it. 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  129 

"By  God !"  he  panted. 

As  he  seized  it  she  screamed  for  the  first  time:  "Jack! 
Jack  Stormont!" — and  fairly  hurled  her  helpless  little  body 
at  Leverett,  striking  him  full  in  the  face  with  her  head. 

Half  stunned,  still  clutching  the  packet,  he  tried  to  stab 
her  in  the  stomach;  but  the  armour  of  bed-clothes  turned 
the  knife,  although  his  violence  dashed  all  breath  out  of  her. 

Sick  with  the  agony  of  it,  speechless,  she  still  made  the 
effort ;  and,  as  he  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  turned  to  escape, 
she  struggled  upright,  choking,  blood  running  from  the  knife 
pricks  in  her  neck. 

With  the  remnant  of  her  strength,  and  still  writhing  and 
gasping  for  breath,  she  tore  herself  from  the  sheets  and 
blankets,  reeled  across  the  room  to  where  Stormont's  rifle 
stood,  threw  in  a  cartridge,  dragged  herself  to  the  window. 

Dimly  she  saw  a  running  figure  in  the  night  mist,  flung 
the  rifle  across  the  window  sill  and  fired.  Then  she  fired 
again — or  thought  she  did.    There  were  two  shots. 

"Eve!"  came  Stormont's  sharp  cry,  "what  the  devil  are 
you  trying  to  do  to  me?" 

His  cry  terrified  her;  the  rifle  clattered  to  the  floor. 

The  next  instant  he  came  running  up  the  stairs,  bare 
headed,  heavy  pistol  swinging,  and  halted,  horrified  at  sight 
of  her. 

"Eve!  My  God!"  he  whispered,  taking  her  blood-wet 
body  into  his  arms. 

"Go  after  Leverett,"  she  gasped.  "He's  robbed  daddy. 
He's  running  away — out  there — somewhere " 

''^'Where  did  he  hurt  you,  Eve — my  little  Eve " 


"Oh,   go!  go!"   she  wailed, — "I'm  not  hurt.     He  only 
pricked  me  with  his  knife.     I'm  not  hurt,  I  tell  you.     Go 


130  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

after  him !    Take  your  pistol  and  follow  him  and  kill  him  !" 

"Oh,"  she  cried  hysterically,  twisting  and  sobbing  in  his 
arms,  "don't  lose  time  here  with  me !  Don't  stand  here 
while  he's  running  away  with  dad's  money!"  And,  "Oh — 
oh — oh!!"  she  sobbed,  collapsing  in  his  arms  and  clinging 
to  him  convulsively  as  he  carried  her  to  her  tumbled  bed 
and  laid  her  there. 

He  said :  "I  couldn't  risk  following  anybody  now,  after 
what  has  happened  to  you.  I  can't  leave  you  alone  here! 
Don't  cry,  Eve.  I'll  get  your  man  for  you,  I  promise!; 
Don't  cry,  dear.  It  was  all  my  fault  for  leaving  this  room 
even  for  a  minute " 

"No,  no,  no!  It's  my  fault.  I  sent  you  away.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  hadn't.  I  wish  I  had  let  you  come  back  when  you 
wanted  to.  ...  I  was  waiting  for  you.  .  .  .  I  left  the  door 
unbolted  for  you.  When  it  opened  I  thought  it  was  you. 
And  it  was  Leverett! — it  was  Leverett! " 

Stormont's  face  grew  very  white :  "What  did  he  do  to 
you.  Eve?    Tell  me,  darling.    W^hat  did  he  do  to  you?" 

"Dad's  money  was  under  my  pillow,"  she  wailed. 
"Leverett  tried  to  make  me  tell  where  it  was.  I  wouldn't, 
and  he  hurt  me " 

"How?" 

"He  pricked  me  with  his  knife.  When  I  screamed  for 
you  he  tried  to  choke  me  with  the  '^illow.  Didn't  you  hear 
me  scream?" 

"Yes.    I  came  on  the  jump." 

"It  was  too  late,"  she  sobbed;  " — too  late!  He  saw  the 
money  packet  under  my  pillow  and  he  snatched  it  and  ran. 
Somehow  I  found  your  rifle  and  fired.    I  fired  twice." 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  131 

Her  only  bullet  had  torn  his  campaign  hat  from  his  head. 
But  he  did  not  tell  her. 

"Let  me  see  your  neck,"  he  said,  bending  closer. 

She  bared  her  throat,  making  a  soft,  vague  complaint  like 
a  hurt  bird, — lay  there  whimpering  under  her  breath  while 
he  bathed  the  blood  away  with  lint,  sterilised  the  two  cuts 
from  his  emergency  packet,  and  bound  them. 

He  was  still  bending  low  over  her  when  her  blue  eyes  un- 
closed on  his. 

"That  is  the  second  time  I've  tried  to  kill  you,"  she  whis- 
pered. "I  thought  it  was  Leverett.  ...  I'd  have  died  if  I 
had  killed  you." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Lie  very  still,'  he  said  huskily.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  mo- 
ment to  rebandage  your  feet  and  make  you  comfortable  for 
the  night." 

"I  can't  sleep,"  she  repeated  desolately.  "Dad  trusted  his 
money  to  me  and  I've  let  Leverett  rob  me.  How  can  I 
sleep?" 

"I'll  bring  you  something  to  make  you  sleep." 

"I  can't!" 

"I  promise  you  you  will  sleep.     Lie  still." 

He  rose,  went  away  downstairs  and  out  to  the  barn,  where 
his  campaign  hat  lay  in  the  weed,  drilled  through  by  a  bullet. 

There  was  something  else  lying  there  in  the  weeds, — a  flat, 
muddy,  shoeless  shape  sprawling  grotesquely  in  the  foggy 
starlight. 

One  hand  clutched  a  hunting  knife;  the  other  a  packet. 

Stormont  drew  the  packet  from  the  stiff  fingers,  then 
turned  the  body  over,  and,  flashing  his  electric  torch,  ex- 
amined the  ratty  visage — what  remained  of  it — for  his  pistol 


132  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

bullet  had  crashed  through  from  ear  to  cheek-bone,  almost 
obliterating  the  trap-robber's  features, 

Stormont  came  slowly  into  Eve's  room  and  laid  the  packet 
on  the  sheet  beside  her. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  reason  for  you  to  lie  awake 
any  longer.    I'll  fix  you  up  for  the  night." 

Deftly  he  unbandaged,  bathed,  dressed,  and  rebandaged 
her  slim  white  feet — little  wounded  feet  so  lovely,  so  ex- 
quisite that  his  hand  trembled  as  he  touched  them. 

"They're  doing  fine,"  he  said  cheerily.  "You've  half  a 
degree  of  fever  and  I'm  going  to  give  you  something  to 
drink  before  you  go  to  sleep " 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  water,  dissolved  two  tablets, 
supported  her  shoulders  while  she  drank  in  a  dazed  way, 
looking  always  at  him  over  the  glass. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "go  to  sleep.  I'll  be  on  the  job  outside 
your  door  until  your  daddy  arrives." 

"How  did  you  get  back  dad's  money?"  she  asked  in  an 
odd,  emotionless  way  as  though  too  weary  for  further  sur- 
prises. 

"I'll  tell  you  in  the  morning." 

"Did  you  kill  him?     I  didn't  hear  your  pistol." 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  the  morning.  Good  night, 
Eve." 

As  he  bent  over  her,  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes  and  put 
both  arms  around  his  neck. 

It  was  her  first  kiss  given  to  any  man,  except  Mike  Clinch. 

After  Stormont  had  gone  out  and  closed  the  door,  she  lay 
very  still  for  a  long  while. 

Then,  instinctively,  she  touched  her  lips  with  her  fingers; 


THE  JEWEL  AFLAME  133 

and,  at  the  contact,  a  blush  clothed  her  from  brow  to  ankle. 

The  Flaming  Jewel  in  its  morocco  casket  under  her  pillow 
burned  with  no  purer  fire  than  the  enchanted  flame  glowing 
in  the  virgin  heart  of  Eve  Strayer  of  Clinch's  Dump. 

Thus  they  lay  together,  two  lovely  flaming  jewels  burning 
softly,  steadily  through  the  misty  splendour  of  the  night. 

Under  a  million  stars.  Death  sprawled  in  squalor  among 
the  trampled  weeds.  Under  the  same  high  stars  dark  moun- 
tains waited;  and  there  was  a  silvery  sound  of  waters  stir- 
ring somewhere  in  the  mist. 


Episode  Seven 
CLINCH'S  DUMP 


TXTHEN  Mike  Clinch  bade  Hal  Smith  return  to  the 
^"  Dump  and  take  care  of  Eve,  Smith  already  had  de- 
cided to  go  there. 

Somewhere  in  Clinch's  Dump  was  hidden  the  Flaming 
Jewel.     Now  was  his  time  to  search  for  it. 

There  were  two  other  reasons  why  he  should  go  back. 
One  of  them  was  that  Leverett  was  loose.  If  anything  had 
called  Trooper  Stormont  away,  Eve  would  be  alone  in  the 
house.  And  nobody  on  earth  could  forecast  what  a  coward 
like  Leverett  might  attempt. 

But  there  was  another  and  more  serious  reason  for  re- 
turning to  Clinch's.  Clinch,  blood-mad,  was  headed  for 
Drowned  Valley  with  his  men,  to  stop  both  ends  of  that  vast 
morass  before  Quintana  and  his  gang  could  get  out. 

It  was  evident  that  neither  Clinch  nor  any  of  his  men — 
although  their  very  lives  depended  upon  familiarity  with  the 
wilderness — ^knew  that  a  third  exit  from  Drowned  Valley 
existed. 

But  the  nephew  of  the  late  Henry  Harrod  knew. 

When  Jake  Kloon  was  a  young  man  and  Darragh  was  a 
boy,  Kloon  had  shown  him  the  rocky,  submerged  game  trail 
into  Drowned  Valley.     Doubtless  Kloon  had  used  it  in 

134 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  135 

hootch  running  since.     If  ever  he  had  told  anybody  else 
about  it,  probably  he  had  revealed  the  trail  to  Quintana. 

And  that  was  why  Darragh,  or  Hal  Smith,  finally  decided 
to  return  to  Star  Pond; — because  if  Quintana  had  been 
told  or  had  discovered  that  circuitous  way  out  of  Drowned 
Valley,  he  might  go  straight  to  Clinch's  Dump.  .  .  .  And, 
supposing  Stormont  was  still  there,  how  long  could  one 
State  Trooper  stand  off  Quintana's  gang? 

No  sooner  had  Clinch  and  his  motley  followers  disap- 
peared in  the  dusk  than  Smith  unslung  his  basket-pack, 
fished  out  a  big  electric  torch,  flashed  it  tentatively,  and  then, 
reslinging  the  pack  and  taking  his  rifle  in  his  left  hand,  he 
set  off  at  an  easy  swinging  stride. 

His  course  was  not  toward  Star  Pond;  it  was  at  right 
angles  with  that  trail.  For  he  was  taking  no  chances. 
Quintana  might  already  have  left  Drowned  Valley  by  that 
third  exit  unknown  to  Clinch. 

Smith's  course  w^ould  now  cut  this  unmarked  trail,  trodden 
only  by  game  that  left  no  sign  in  the  shallow  mountain  rivu- 
let which  was  the  path. 

The  trail  lay  a  long  way  off  through  the  night.  But  if 
Quintana  had  discovered  and  taken  that  trail,  it  would  be 
longer  still  for  him — twice  as  long  as  the  regular  trail  out. 

For  a  mile  or  two  the  forest  was  first  growth  pine,  and 
sufficiently  open  so  that  Smith  might  economise  on  his  torch. 

He  knew  every  foot  of  it.  As  a  boy  he  had  carried  a 
Jacob-staff  in  the  Geological  Survey.  Who  better  than  the 
forest-roaming  nephew  of  Henry  Harrod  should  know  this 
blind  wilderness? 

The  great  pines  towered  on  every  side,  lofty  and  smooth 


136  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

to  the  feathery  canopy  that  crowned  them  under  the  high 
stars. 

There  was  no  game  here,  no  water,  nothing  to  attract  any- 
body except  the  devastating  lumberman.  But  this  was  a  five 
thousand  acre  patch  of  State  land.  The  ugly  whine  of  the 
steam-saw  would  never  be  heard  here. 

On  he  walked  at  an  easy,  swinging  stride,  flashing  his 
torch  rarely,  feeling  no  concern  about  discovery  by  Quin- 
tana's  people. 

It  was  only  when  he  came  into  the  hardwoods  that  the 
combined  necessity  for  caution  and  torch  perplexed  and 
worried  him. 

Somewhere  in  here  began  an  outcrop  of  rock  running  east 
for  miles.  Only  stunted  cedar  and  berry  bushes  found  shal- 
low nourishment  on  this  ridge. 

When  at  last  he  found  it  he  travelled  upon  it,  more  slowly, 
constantly  obliged  to  employ  the  torch. 

After  an  hour,  perhaps,  his  feet  splashed  in  shallow 
water.  That  was  what  he  was  expecting.  The  water  was 
only  an  inch  or  two  deep ;  it  was  ice  cold  and  running  north. 

Now,  he  must  advance  with  every  caution.  For  here 
trickled  the  thin  flow  of  that  rocky  rivulet  which  was  the 
other  entrance  and  exit  penetrating  that  immense  horror  of 
marsh  and  bog  and  depthless  sink-hole  known  as  Drowned 
Valley. 

For  a  long  while  he  did  not  dare  to  use  his  torch ;  but  now 
he  was  obliged  to. 

He  shined  the  ground  at  his  feet,  elevated  the  torch  with 
infinite  precaution,  throwing  a  fan-shaped  light  over  the 
stretch  of  sink  he  had  suspected  and  feared.    It  flanked  the 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  137 

flat,  wet  path  of  rock  on  either  side.    Here  Death  spread  its 
sHmy  trap  at  his  very  feet. 

Then,  as  he  stood  taking  his  bearings  with  burning  torch, 
far  ahead  in  the  darkness  a  Hght  flashed,  went  out,  flashed 
twice  more,  and  was  extinguished. 

Quintana ! 

Smith's  wits  were  working  like  Hghtning,  but  instinct 
guided  him  before  his  brain  took  command.  He  levelled  his 
torch  and  repeated  the  three  signal  flashes.  Then,  in  dark- 
ness, he  came  to  swift  conclusion. 

There  were  no  other  signals  from  the  unknown.  The 
stony  bottom  of  the  rivulet  was  his  only  aid. 

In  his  right  hand  the  torch  hung  almost  touching  the 
water.  At  times  he  ventured  sufficient  pressure  for  a  feeble 
glimmer,  then  again  trusted  to  his  sense  of  contact. 

For  three  hundred  yards,  counting  his  strides,  he  contin- 
ued on.  Then,  in  total  darkness,  he  pocketed  the  torch,  slid 
a  cartridge  into  the  breech  of  his  rifle,  slung  the  weapon, 
pulled  out  a  handkerchief,  and  tied  it  across  his  face  under 
the  eyes. 

Now,  he  drew  the  torch  from  his  pocket,  levelled  it,  sent 
three  quick  flashes  out  into  darkness. 

Instantly,  close  ahead,  three  blinding  flashes  broke  out. 

For  Hal  Smith  it  all  had  become  a  question  of  seconds. 

Death  lay  depthless  on  either  hand;  ahead  Death  blocked 
the  trail  in  silence. 

Out  of  the  dark  some  unseen  rifle  might  vomit  death  in 
his  very  face  at  any  moment. 

He  continued  to  move  forward.  After  a  little  while  his 
ear  caught  a  slight  splash  ahead.  Suddenly  a  glare  of  light 
enveloped  him. 


138  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Is  it  you,  Harry  Beck?" 

Instinct  led  again  while  wits  worked  madly:  "Harry 
Beck  is  two  miles  back  on  guard.     Where  is  Sard?" 

The  silence  became  terrible.  Once  the  glaring  light  in 
front  moved,  then  become  fixed.  There  was  a  light  splash- 
ing. Instantly  Smith  realised  that  the  man  in  front  had  set 
his  torch  in  a  tree-crotch  and  was  now  cowering  somewhere 
behind  a  levelled  weapon.    His  voice  came  presently : 

"He!     Drap-a  that-a  gun  damn  quick!" 

Smith  bent,  leisurely,  and  laid  his  rifle  on  a  mossy  rock. 

"Now!    You  there!    Why  you  want  Sard!     Eh?" 

"I'll  tell  Sard,  not  you,"  retorted  Smith  coolly.  "You 
listen  to  me,  whoever  you  are.  I'm  from  Sard's  office  in 
New  York.  I'm  Abrams.  The  police  are  on  their  way  here 
to  find  Quintana." 

"How  I  know?  Eh?  Why  shall  I  believe  that?  You 
tell-a  me  queeck  or  I  blow-a  your  damn  head  off !" 

"Quintana  will  blow-a  your  head  off  unless  you  take  me 
to  Sard,"  drawled  Smith. 

A  movement  might  have  meant  death,  but  he  calmly 
rummaged  for  a  cigarette,  lighted  it,  blew  a  cloud  insolently 
toward  the  white  glare  ahead.  Then  he  took  another 
chance : 

"I  guess  you're  Nick  Salzar,  aren't  you?" 

"Si !    I  am  Salzar.    Who  the  dev'  are  you?" 

"I'm  Eddie  Abrams,  Sard's  lawyer.  My  business  is  to 
find  my  client.  If  you  stop  me  you'll  go  to  prison — the 
whole  gang  of  you — Sard,  Quintana,  Picquet,  Sanchez, 
Georgiades  and  Harry  Beck, — and  you!" 

After  a  dead  silence  :    "Maybe  you'll  go  to  the  chair,  too!" 

It  was  the  third  chance  he  took. 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  139 

There  was  a  dreadful  stillness  in  the  woods.  Finally  came 
a  slight  series  of  splashes;  the  crunch  of  heavy  boots  on  rock. 

"For  why  you  com-a  here,  eh?"  demanded  Salzar,  in  a 
less  aggressive  manner.    "What-a  da  matt',  eh?" 

"Well,"  said  Smith,  "if  you've  got  to  know,  there  are  peo- 
ple from  Esthonia  in  New  York.  ...  If  you  understand 
that." 

"Christi!     When  do  they  arrive?" 

"A  week  ago.  Sard's  place  is  in  the  hands  of  the  police. 
I  couldn't  stop  them.  They've  got  his  safe  and  all  his  papers. 
City,  State,  and  Federal  officers  are  looking  for  him.  The 
Constabulary  rode  into  Ghost  Lake  yesterday.  Now,  don't 
you  think  you'd  better  lead  me  to  Sard?" 

"Cristi !"  exclaimed  Salzar.  "Sard  he  is  a  mile  ahead 
with  the  others.  Damn !  Damn !  Me,  how  should  I  know 
what  is  to  be  done  ?  Me,  I  have  my  orders  from  Quintana. 
What  I  do,  eh?  Cristi!  What  to  do?  What  you  say  I 
should  do,  eh,  Abrams?" 

A  new  fear  had  succeeded  the  old  one — that  was  evident — 
and  Salzar  came  forward  into  the  light  of  his  own  fixed 
torch — a  well-knit  figure  in  slouch  hat,  grey  shirt,  and  grey 
breeches,  and  wearing  a  red  bandanna  over  the  lower  part  of 
his  face.     He  carried  a  heavy  rifle. 

He  came  on,  sturdily,  splashing  through  the  water,  and 
walked  up  to  Smith,  his  rifle  resting  on  his  right  shoulder. 

"For  me,"  he  said  excitedly,  "long  time  I  have  worry  in 
this-a  damn  wood !  Si  1  Where  you  say  those  carbinieri  ? 
Eh?" 

"At  Ghost  Lake.     Your  signature  is  in  the  hotel  ledger." 

"Cristi !     You  know  where  Clinch  is?" 

"You  know,  too.     He  is  on  the  way  to  Drowned  Valley." 


140  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Damn !  I  knew  it.  Quintana  also.  You  know  where  is 
Quintana  ?  And  Sard  ?  I  tell-a  you.  They  march  ver'  fast 
to  the  Dump  of  CHnch.  Si !  And  there  they  would  discover 
these-a  beeg-a  dimon' — these-a  Flame- Jewel.  Si!  Now, 
you  tell-a  me  what  I  do?" 

Smith  said  slowly :  "If  Quintana  is  marching  on  Clinch's 
he's  marching  into  a  trap!" 

Salzar  blanched  above  his  bandanna. 

"The  State  Troopers  are  there,"  said  Smith.  "They'll  get 
him  sure." 

"Cristi,"  faltered  Salzar,  " — then  they  are  gobble — 
Quintana,  Sard,  everybody!     Si?" 

Smith  considered  the  man :  "You  can  save  your  skin  any- 
way. You  can  go  back  and  tell  Harry  Beck.  Then  both  of 
you  can  beat  it  for  Drowned  Valley." 

He  picked  up  his  rifle,  stood  a  moment  in  troubled  reflec- 
tion : 

"If  I  could  overtake  Quintana  I'd  do  it,"  he  said.  "I 
think  I'll  try.  If  I  can't,  he's  done  for.  You  tell  Harry 
Beck  that  Eddie  Abrams  advises  him  to  beat  it  for  Drowned 
Valley." 

Suddenly  Salzar  tore  the  bandanna  from  his  face,  flung  it 
down  and  stamped  on  it. 

"What  I  tell  Quintana!"  he  yelled,  his  features  distorted 
with  rage.  "I  don't-a  like ! — no,  not  me ! — no,  I  tell-a  heem, 
stay  at  those  Ghost-a  Lake  and  watch  thees-a  fellow  Clinch, 
Si!  Not  for  me  thees-a  wood.  No!  I  spit  upon  it!  I 
curse  like  hell !  I  tell  Quintana  I  don't-a  like.  Now,  eet  is 
trouble  that  comes  and  we  lose-a  out !  Damn !  Damn!  Me, 
I  find  me  Beck.    You  shall  say  to  Jose  Quintana  how  he  is  a 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  141 

damfool.  Me,  I  am  finish — me,  Nick  Salzar !  You  hear  me, 
Abrams !    I  am  through !    I  go !" 

He  glared  at  Smith,  started  to  move,  came  back  and  took 
his  torch,  made  a  violent  gesture  with  it  which  drenched  the 
woods  with  goblin  light. 

"You  stop-a  Quintana,  maybe.  You  tell-a  heem  he  is  the 
bigg-a  fool !  You  tell-a  heem  Nick  Salzar  is  no  damn  fool. 
No !    Adios,  my  frien'  Abrams.    I  beat  it.    I  save  my  skin !" 

Once  more  Salzar  turned  and  headed  for  Drowned  Valley. 
.  .  .  Where  Clinch  would  not  fail  to  kill  him.  .  .  .  The 
man  was  going  to  his  death.  .  .  .  And  it  was  Smith  who 
sent  him. 

Suddenly  it  came  to  Smith  that  he  could  not  do  this  thing ; 
that  this  man  had  no  chance ;  that  he  was  slaying  a  human 
being  with  perfect  safety  to  himself  and  without  giving  him 
a  chance. 

"Salzar!"  he  called  sharply. 

The  man  halted  and  looked  around. 

"Come  back  1" 

Salzar  hesitated,  turned  finally,  slouched  toward  him. 

Smith  laid  aside  his  pack  and  rifle,  and,  as  Salzar  came  up, 
he  quietly  took  his  weapon  from  him  and  laid  it  beside  his 
own. 

"What-a  da  matt'  ?"  demanded  Salzar,  astonished.  "Why 
you  taka  my  gun?" 

Smith  measured  him.     They  were  well  matched. 

"Set  your  torch  in  that  crotch,"  he  said. 

Salzar,  puzzled  and  impatient,  demanded  to  know  why. 
Smith  took  both  torches,  set  them  opposite  each  other  and 
drew  Salzar  into  the  white  glare. 


142  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Now,"  he  said,  "you  dirty  desperado,  I  am  going  to  try 
to  kill  you  clean.     Look  out  for  yourself !" 

For  a  second  Salzar  stood  rooted  in  blank  astonishment. 

"Fm  one  of  Clinch's  men,"  said  Smith,  "but  I  can't  stick 
a  knife  in  your  back,  at  that!  Now,  take  care  of  yourself  if 
you  can " 

His  voice  died  in  his  throat ;  Salzar  was  on  him,  clawing, 
biting,  kicking,  striving  to  strangle  him,  to  wrestle  him  off 
his  feet.  Smith  reeled,  staggering  under  the  sheer  rush  of 
the  man,  almost  blinded  by  blows,  clutched,  bewildered  in 
Salzar's  panther  grip. 

For  a  moment  he  writhed  there,  searching  blindly  for  his 
enemy's  wrist,  striving  to  avoid  the  teeth  that  snapped  at  his 
throat,  stifled  by  the  hot  stench  of  the  man's  breath  in  his 
face. 

"I  keel  you !  I  keel  you !  Damn !  Damn !"  panted  Salzar, 
in  convulsive  fury  as  Smith  freed  his  left  arm  and  struck 
him  in  the  face. 

Now,  on  the  narrow,  wet  and  slippery  strip  of  rock  they 
swayed  to  and  fro,  murderously  interlocked,  their  heavy 
boots  splashing,  battling  with  limb  and  body. 

Twice  Salzar  forced  Smith  outward  over  the  sink,  trying 
to  end  it,  but  could  not  free  himself. 

Once,  too,  he  managed  to  get  at  a  hidden  knife,  drag  it  out 
and  stab  at  head  and  throat;  but  Smith  caught  the  fist  that 
wielded  it,  forced  back  the  arm,  held  it  while  Salzar  screamed 
at  him,  lunging  at  his  face  with  bared  teeth. 

Suddenly  the  end  came :  Salzar's  body  heaved  upward, 
sprawled  for  an  instant  in  the  dazzling  glare,  hurtled  over 
Smith's  head  and  fell  into  the  sink  with  a  crashing  splash. 

Frantically  he  thrashed  there,  spattering  and  floundering 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  14S 

in  darkness.  He  made  no  outcry.  Probably  he  had  landed 
head  first. 

In  a  moment  only  a  vague  heaving  came  from  the  unseen 
ooze. 

Smith,  exhausted,  drenched  with  sweat,  leaned  against  a 
tamarack,  sickened. 

After  all  sound  had  ceased  he  straightened  up  with  an 
eflfort.  Presently  he  bent  and  recovered  Salzar's  red  ban- 
danna and  his  hat,  lifted  his  own  rifle  and  pack  and  struggled 
into  the  harness.  Then,  kicking  Salzar's  rifle  overboard,  he 
unfastened  both  torches,  pocketed  one,  and  started  on  in  a 
flood  of  ghostly  light. 

He  was  shaking  all  over  and  the  torch  quivered  in  his 
hand.  He  had  seen  men  die  in  the  Great  War.  He  had 
been  near  death  himself.  But  never  before  had  he  been  near 
death  in  so  horrible  a  form.  The  sodden  noises  in  the  mud, 
the  deadened  flopping  of  the  sinking  body — mud-plastered 
hands  beating  frantically  on  mud,  spattering,  agonising  in 
darkness — "My  God,"  he  breathed,  "anything  but  that — 
anything  but  that! " 

II 

Before  midnight  he  struck  the  hard  forest.  Here  there 
was  no  trail  at  all,  only  spreading  outcrop  of  rock  under 
dying  leaves. 

He  could  see  a  few  stars.  Cautiously  he  ventured  to  shine 
his  compass  close  to  the  ground.  He  was  still  headed  right. 
The  ghastly  sink  country  lay  behind  him. 

Ahead  of  him,  somewhere  in  darkness — but  how  far  he 
did  not  know — Quintana  and  his  people  were  moving  swiftly 
on  Clinch's  Dump. 


144  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Tt  may  have  been  an  hour  later — two  hours,  perhaps — 
when  from  far  ahead  in  the  forest  came  a  sound — the  faint 
dink  of  a  shod  heel  on  rock. 

Now,  Smith  unslung  his  pack,  placed  it  between  two 
rocks  where  laurel  grew. 

Salzar's  red  bandanna  was  still  wet,  but  he  tied  it  across 
his  face,  leaving  his  eyes  exposed.  The  dead  man's  hat 
fitted  him.  His  own  hat  and  the  extra  torch  he  dropped  into 
his  basket-pack. 

Ready,  now,  he  moved  swiftly  forward,  trailing  his  rifle. 
And  very  soon  it  became  plain  to  him  that  the  people  ahead 
were  moving  without  much  caution,  evidently  fearing  no 
unfriendly  ear  or  eye  in  that  section  of  the  wilderness. 

Smith  could  hear  their  tread  on  rock  and  root  and  rotten 
branch,  or  swishing  through  frosted  fern  and  brake,  or 
louder  on  newly  fallen  leaves. 

At  times  he  could  even  see  the  round  white  glare  of  a 
torch  on  the  ground — see  it  shift  ahead,  lighting  up  tree 
trunks,  spread  out,  fanlike,  into  a  wide,  misty  glory,  then 
vanish  as  darkness  rushed  in  from  the  vast  ocean  of  the 
night. 

Once  they  halted  at  a  brook.  Their  torches  flashed  it ;  he 
heard  them  sounding  its  depths  with  their  gun-butts. 

Smith  knew  that  brook.  It  was  the  east  branch  of  Star 
Brook,  the  inlet  to  Star  Pond. 

Far  ahead  above  the  trees  the  sky  seemed  luminous.  It 
was  star  lustre  over  the  pond,  turning  the  mist  to  a  silvery 
splendour. 

Now  the  people  ahead  of  him  moved  with  more  caution, 
crossing  the  brook  without  splashing,  and  their  boots  made 
less  noise  in  the  woods. 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  145 

To  keep  in  touch  with  them  Smith  hastened  his  pace  until 
he  drew  near  enough  to  hear  the  low  murmur  of  their  voices. 

They  were  travelling  in  single  file;  he  had  a  glimpse  of 
them  against  the  ghostly  radiance  ahead.  Indeed,  so  near 
had  he  approached  that  he  could  hear  the  heavy,  laboured 
breathing  of  the  last  man  in  the  file — some  laggard  who 
dragged  his  feet,  plodding  on  doggedly,  panting,  muttering. 
Probably  the  man  was  Sard. 

Already  the  forest  in  front  was  invaded  by  the  misty 
radiance  from  the  clearing.  Through  the  trees  starlight 
glimmered  on  water.  The  perfume  of  the  open  land  grew  in 
the  night  air, — the  scent  of  dew-wet  grass,  the  smell  of  still 
water  and  of  sedgy  shores. 

Lying  flat  behind  a  rotting  log,  Smith  could  see  them  all 
now, — spectral  shapes  against  the  light.  There  were  five  of 
them  at  the  forest's  edge. 

They  seemed  to  know  what  was  to  be  done  and  how  to  do 
it.  Two  went  down  among  the  ferns  and  stunted  willows 
toward  the  west  shore  of  the  pond;  two  sheered  off  to  the 
southwest,  shoulder  deep  in  blackberry  and  sumac.  The 
fifth  man  waited  for  a  while,  then  ran  down  across  the  open 
pasture. 

Scarcely  had  he  started  when  Smith  glided  to  the  wood's 
edge,  crouched,  and  looked  down. 

Below  stood  Clinch's  Dump,  plain  in  the  starlight,  every 
window  dark.  To  the  west  the  barn  loomed,  huge  with  its 
ramshackle  outbuildings  straggling  toward  the  lake. 

Straight  down  the  slope  toward  the  barn  ran  the  fifth 
man  of  Quintana's  gang,  and  disappeared  among  the  out- 
buildings. 


146  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Smith  crept  after  him  through  the  sumacs;  and,  at  the 
foot  of  the  slope,  squatted  low  in  a  clump  of  rag- weed. 

So  close  to  the  house  was  he  now  that  he  could  hear  the 
dew  rattling  on  the  veranda  roof.  He  saw  shadowy  figures 
appear,  one  after  another,  and  take  stations  at  the  four  cor- 
ners of  the  house.  The  fifth  man  was  somewhere  near  the 
out-buildings,  very  silent  about  whatever  he  had  on  hand. 

The  stillness  was  absolute  save  for  the  drumming  dew 
and  a  faint  ripple  from  the  water's  edge. 

Smith  crouched,  listened,  searched  the  starlight  with  intent 
eyes,  and  waited. 

Until  something  happened  he  could  not  solve  the  problem 
before  him.  He  could  be  of  no  use  to  Eve  Strayer  and  to 
Stormont  until  he  found  out  what  Quintana  was  going 
to  do. 

He  could  be  of  little  use  anyway  unless  he  got  into  the 
house,  where  two  rifles  might  hold  out  against  five. 

There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  get  to  Ghost  Lake  for 
assistance.  He  felt  that  whatever  was  about  to  happen 
would  come  with  a  rush.  It  would  be  all  over  before  he  had 
gone  five  minutes.  No;  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  stay 
where  he  was. 

As  for  his  pledge  to  the  little  Grand  Duchess,  that  was 
always  in  his  mind.  Sooner  or  later,  somehow,  he  was  going 
to  make  good  his  pledge. 

He  knew  that  Quintana  and  his  gang  were  here  to  find  the 
Flaming  Jewel. 

Had  he  not  encountered  Quintana,  his  own  errand  had 
been  the  same.  For  Smith  had  started  for  Clinch's  prepared 
to  reveal  himself  to  Stormont,  and  then,  masked  to  the  eyes 
— and  to  save  Eve  from  a  broken  heart,  and  Clinch  from 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  14.7 

States  Prison — he  had  meant  to  rob  the  girl  at  pistol-point. 
It  was  the  only  way  to  save  Clinch ;  the  only  way  to  save 
the  pride  of  this  blindly  loyal  girl.    For  the  arrest  of  Clinch 
meant  ruin  to  both,  and  Smith  realised  it  thoroughly. 

A  slight  sound  from  one  of  the  out-houses — a  sort  of 
wagon-shed — attracted  his  attention.  Through  the  frost- 
blighted  rag-weeds  he  peered  intently,  listening. 

After  a  few  moments  a  faint  glow  appeared  in  the  shed. 
There  was  a  crackling  noise.    The  glow  grew  pinker. 


Ill 

Inside  Clinch's  house  Eve  awoke  with  a  start.  Her  ears 
were  filled  with  a  strange,  rushing,  crackling  noise.  A  rosy 
glare  danced  and  shook  outside  her  windows. 

As  she  sprang  to  the  floor  on  bandaged  feet,  a  shrill 
scream  burst  out  in  the  ruddy  darkness — unearthly,  hor- 
rible ;  and  there  came  a  thunderous  battering  from  the  barn. 

The  girl  tore  open  her  bedroom  door.  "J^^k!"  she  cried 
in  a  terrified  voice.    "The  barn's  on  fire !" 

"Good  God!"  he  said,  "—my  horse!" 

He  had  already  sprung  from  his  chair  outside  her  door. 
Now  he  ran  downstairs,  and  she  heard  bolt  and  chain  clash  at 
the  kitchen  door  and  his  spurred  boots  land  on  the  porch. 

"Oh,"  she  whimpered,  snatching  a  blanket  wrapper  from 
a  peg  and  struggling  into  it.  "Oh,  the  poor  horse!  Jack! 
Jack !  I'm  coming  to  help !  Don't  risk  your  life !  I'm  com- 
ing— I'm  coming " 

Terror  clutched  her  as  she  stumbled  downstairs  on  ban- 
daged feet. 


148  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

As  she  reached  the  door  a  great  flare  of  light  almost 
blinded  her. 

"Jack!" 

And  at  the  same  instant  she  saw  him  struggling  with 
three  masked  men  in  the  glare  of  the  wagon-shed  afire. 

His  rifle  stood  in  the  corridor  outside  her  door.  With  one 
bound  she  was  on  the  stairs  again.  There  came  the  crash 
and  splinter  of  wood  and  glass  from  the  kitchen,  and  a  man 
with  a  handkerchief  over  his  face  caught  her  on  the  landing. 

Twice  she  wrenched  herself  loose  and  her  fingers  almost 
touched  Stormont's  rifle;  she  fought  like  a  cornered  lynx, 
tore  the  handkerchief  from  her  assailant's  face,  recognised 
Quintana,  hurled  her  very  body  at  him,  eyes  flaming,  small 
teeth  bared. 

Two  other  men  laid  hold.  In  another  moment  she  had 
tripped  Quintana,  and  all  four  fell,  rolling  over  and  over 
down  the  short  flight  of  stairs,  landing  in  the  kitchen,  still 
fighting. 

Here,  in  darkness,  she  wriggled  out,  somehow,  leaving  her 
blanket  wrapped  in  their  clutches.  In  another  instant  she  was 
up  the  stairs  again,  only  to  discover  that  the  rifle  was  gone. 

The  red  glare  from  the  wagon-house  lighted  her  bedroom ; 
she  sprang  inside  and  bolted  the  door. 

Her  chamois  jacket  with  its  loops  full  of  cartridges  hung 
on  a  peg.  She  got  into  it,  seized  her  rifle  and  ran  to  the 
window  just  as  two  masked  men,  pushing  Stormont  before 
them,  entered  the  house  by  the  kitchen  way. 

Her  own  door  was  resounding  with  kicks  and  blows,  shak- 
ing, shivering  under  the  furious  impact  of  boot  and  rifle- 
butt. 

She  ran  to  the  bed,  thrust  her  hand  under  the  pillow. 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  149 

pulled  out  the  case  containing  the  Flaming  Jewel,  and  placed 
it  in  the  breast  pocket  of  her  shooting  jacket. 

Again  she  crept  to  the  window.  Only  the  wagon-house 
was  burning.  Somebody,  however,  had  led  Stormont's 
horse  from  the  barn,  and  had  tied  it  to  a  tree  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance. It  stood  there,  trembling,  its  beautiful,  nervous  head 
turned  toward  the  burning  building. 

The  blows  upon  her  bedroom  door  had  ceased;  there 
came  a  loud  trampling,  the  sound  of  excited  voices;  Quin- 
tana's  sarcastic  tones,  clear,  dominant : 

"Dios!  The  police!  Why  you  bring  me  this  gendarme? 
What  am  I  to  do  with  a  gentleman  of  the  Constabulary,  eh? 
Do  you  think  I  am  fool  enough  to  cut  his  throat?  Well, 
Sefior  Gendarme,  what  are  you  doing  here  in  the  Dump  of 
Clinch?" 

Then  Stormont's  voice,  clear  and  quiet :  "What  are  you 
doing  here?  If  you've  a  quarrel  with  Clinch,  he's  not  here. 
There's  only  a  young  girl  in  this  house." 

"So?"  said  Quintana.  "Well,  that  is  what  I  expec',  my 
frien'.  It  is  thees  lady  upon  whom  I  do  myse'f  the  honour 
to  call!" 

Eve,  listening,  heard  Stormont's  rejoinder,  still,  calm,  and 
very  grave : 

"The  man  who  lays  a  finger  on  that  young  girl  had  better 
be  dead.  He's  as  good  as  dead  the  moment  he  touches  her. 
There  won't  be  a  chance  for  him.  .  .  .  Nor  for  any  of  you, 
if  you  harm  her." 

"Calm  youse'f,  my  frien',"  said  Quintana.  "I  demand  of 
thees  young  lady  only  that  she  return  to  me  the  property  of 
which  I  have  been  rob  by  Monsieur  Clinch." 

"I  knew  nothing  of  any  theft.     Nor  does  she " 


150  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Pardon;  Sefior  Clinch  knows;  and  I  know."  His  tone 
changed,  offensively:  "Seiior  Gendarme,  am  I  permit  to 
understan'  that  you  are  a  frien'  of  thees  young  lady? — a 
heart-frien',  per'aps " 

"I  am  her  friend,"  said  Stormont  bluntly. 

"Ah,"  said  Quintana,  "then  you  shall  persuade  her  to  re- 
turn to  me  thees  packet  of  which  Monsieur  Clinch  has  rob 
me." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  then  Quintana' s  voice  again: 

"I  know  thees  packet  is  concel  in  thees  house.  Peaceably, 
if  possible,  I  would  recover  my  property.  ...  If  she  re- 
fuse  " 

Another  pause. 

"Well?"  inquired  Stormont,  coolly. 

"Ah !  It  is  ver'  painful  to  say.  Alas,  Sefior  Gendarme,  I 
mus'  have  my  property.  ...  If  she  refuse,  then  I  mus'  sever 
one  of  her  pretty  fingers.  .  .  .  An'  if  she  still  refuse — I 
sever  her  pretty  fingers,  one  by  one,  until " 

"You  know  what  would  happen  to  you?"  interrupted  Stor- 
mont, in  a  voice  that  quivered  in  spite  of  himself. 

"I  take  my  chance.  Seiior  Gendarme,  she  is  within  that 
room.  If  you  are  her  frien',  you  shall  advise  her  to  return  to 
me  my  property." 

After  another  silence : 

"Eve !"  he  called  sharply. 

She  placed  her  lips  to  the  door  :    "Yes,  Jack." 

He  said :  "There  are  five  masked  men  out  here  who  say 
that  Clinch  robbed  them  and  they  are  here  to  recover  their 
property.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  anything  about  this  ?" 

"I  know  they  lie.    My  father  is  not  a  thief.  ...  I  have 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  151 

my  rifle  and  plenty  of  ammunition.  I  shall  kill  every  man 
who  enters  this  room." 

For  a  moment  nobody  stirred  or  spoke.  Then  Quintana 
strode  to  the  bolted  door  and  struck  it  with  the  butt  of  his 
rifle. 

"You,  in  there,"  he  said  in  a  menacing  voice,  " — you 
listen  once  to  me!  You  open  your  door  and  come  out.  I 
give  you  one  minute!"  He  struck  the  door  again:  ''One 
minute,  senorita ! — or  I  cut  from  your  f rien',  here,  the  hand 
from  his  right  arm !" 

There  was  a  deathly  silence.  Then  the  sound  of  bolts. 
The  door  opened.  Slowly  the  girl  limped  forward,  still 
wearing  the  hunting  jacket  over  her  night-dress. 

Quintana  made  her  an  elaborate  and  ironical  bow,  slouch 
hat  in  hand ;  another  masked  man  took  her  rifle. 

"Senorita,"  said  Quintana  with  another  sweep  of  his  hat, 
'T  ask  pardon  that  I  trouble  you  for  my  packet  of  which 
your  father  has  rob  me  for  ver'  long  time." 

Slowly  the  girl  lifted  her  blue  eyes  to  Stormont.  He  was 
standing  between  two  masked  men.  Their  pistols  were 
pressed  slightly  against  his  stomach. 

Stormont  reddened  painfully : 

"It  was  not  for  myself  that  I  let  you  open  your  door,"  he 
said.     "They  would  not  have  ventured  to  lay  hands  on  me." 

"Ah,"  said  Quintana  with  a  terrifying  smile,  "you  would 
not  have  been  the  first  gendarme  who  had — accorded  me  his 
handl" 

Two  of  the  masked  men  laughed  loudly. 

Outside  in  the  rag-weed  patch,  Smith  rose,  stole  across  the 
grass  to  the  kitchen  door  and  slipped  inside. 


152  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Now,  senorita,"  said  Quintana  gaily,  "my  packet,  if  you 
please, — and  we  leave  you  to  the  caresses  of  your  faithful 
gendarme, — who  should  thank  God  that  he  still  possesses 
two  good  hands  to  fondle  you !  Alons !  Come  then !  My 
packet!" 

One  of  the  masked  men  said :  "Take  her  downstairs  and 
lock  her  up  somewhere  or  she'll  shoot  us  from  her  window." 

"Lead  out  that  gendarme,  too!"  added  Quintana,  grasping 
Eve  by  the  arm. 

Down  the  stairs  tramped  the  men,  forcing  their  prisoners 
with  them. 

In  the  big  kitchen  the  glare  from  the  burning  out-house 
fell  dimly;  the  place  was  full  of  shadows. 

"Now,"  said  Quintana,  "I  take  my  property  and  my  leave. 
Where  is  the  packet  hidden?" 

She  stood  for  a  moment  with  drooping  head,  amid  the 
sombre  shadows,  then,  slowly,  she  drew  the  emblazoned 
morocco  case  from  her  breast  pocket. 

What  followed  occurred  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye :  for, 
as  Quintana  extended  his  arm  to  grasp  the  case,  a  hand 
snatched  it,  a  masked  figure  sprang  through  the  doorway, 
and  ran  toward  the  barn. 

Somebody  recognised  the  hat  and  red  bandanna : 

"Salzar !"  he  yelled.    "Nick  Salzar !" 

"A  traitor,  by  God!"  shouted  Quintana.  Even  before  he 
had  reached  the  door,  his  pistol  flashed  twice,  deafening  all 
in  the  semi-darkness,  choking  them  with  stifling  fumes. 

A  masked  man  turned  on  Stormont,  forcing  him  back  into 
the  pantry  at  pistol-point.  Another  man  pushed  Eve  after 
him,  slammed  the  pantry  door  and  bolted  it. 

Through  the  iron  bars  of  the  pantry  window,  Stormont 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  153 

saw  a  man,  wearing  a  red  bandanna  tied  under  his  eyes,  run 
up  and  untie  his  horse  and  fling  himself  astride  under  a 
shower  of  bullets. 

As  he  wheeled  the  horse  and  swung  him  into  the  clearing 
toward  the  foot  of  Star  Pond,  his  seat  and  horsemanship 
were  not  to  be  mistaken. 

He  was  gone,  now,  the  gallop  stretching  into  a  dead  run; 
and  Quintana's  men  still  following,  shooting,  hallooing  in 
the  starlight  like  a  pack  of  leaping  shapes  from  hell. 

But  Quintana  had  not  followed  far.  When  he  had  emptied 
his  automatic  he  halted. 

Something  about  the  transaction  suddenly  checked  his 
fury,  stilled  it,  summoned  his  brain  into  action. 

For  a  full  minute  he  stood  unstirring,  every  atom  of  in- 
telligence in  terrible  concentration. 

Presently  he  put  his  left  hand  into  his  pocket,  fitted 
another  clip  to  his  pistol,  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
straight  back  to  the  house. 

Between  the  two  locked  in  the  pantry  not  a  word  had 
passed.  Stormont  still  peered  out  between  the  iron  bars, 
striving  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  was  going  on.  Eve 
crouched  at  the  pantry  doors,  her  face  in  her  hands,  listening. 

Suddenly  she  heard  Quintana's  step  in  the  kitchen.  Cau- 
tiously she  turned  the  pantry  key  from  inside. 

Stormont  heard  her,  and  instantly  came  to  her.  At  the 
same  moment  Quintana  unbolted  the  door  from  the  outside 
and  tried  to  open  it. 

"Come  out,"  he  said  coldly,  "or  it  will  not  go  well  with 
you  when  my  men  return." 

"You've  got  what  you  say  is  your  property,"  replied 
Stormont.    "What  do  you  want  now?"' 


154  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"I  tell  you  what  I  want  ver'  damn  quick.  Who  was  he, 
thees  man  who  rides  with  my  property  on  your  horse  away  ? 
Eh  ?  Because  it  was  not  Nick  Salzar !  No !  Salzar  can  not 
ride  thees  way.    No!    Alors?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  who  he  was,"  replied  Stormont.  "That's 
your  affair,  not  ours." 

"No?  Ah !  Ver'  well,  then.  I  shall  tell  you,  Senor  Flic! 
He  was  one  of  yours.  I  understan'.  It  is  a  trap,  a  cheat — 
what  you  call  a  plant!  Thees  man  who  rode  your  horse  he  is 
disguise !  Yes !  He  also  is  a  gendarme !  Yes !  You  think  I 
let  a  gendarme  rob  me?  I  got  you  where  I  want  you  now. 
You  shall  write  your  gendarme  frien'  that  he  return  to  me 
my  property,  one  day's  time,  or  I  send  him  by  parcel  post  two 
nice,  fresh-out  right-hands  —  your  sweetheart's  and  your 
own !" 

Stormont  drew  Eve's  head  close  to  his  : 

"This  man  is  blood  mad  or  out  of  his  mind !  I'd  better  go 
out  and  take  a  chance  at  him  before  the  others  come  back." 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head  violently,  caught  him  by  the 
arm  and  drew  him  toward  the  mouth  of  the  tile  down  which 
Clinch  always  emptied  his  hootch  when  the  Dump  was 
raided. 

But  now,  it  appeared  that  the  tile  which  protruded  from 
the  cement  floor  was  removable. 

In  silence  she  began  to  unscrew  it,  and  he,  seeing  what  she 
was  trying  to  do,  helped  her. 

Together  they  lifted  the  heavy  tile  and  laid  it  on  the  floor. 

"You  open  thees  door !"  shouted  Quintana  in  a  paroxysm 
of  fury.  "I  give  you  one  minute !  Then,  by  God,  I  kill  you 
both!" 

Eve  lifted  a  screen  of  wood  through  which  the  tile  had 


CLINCH'S  DUMP  155 

been  set.  Under  it  a  black  hole  yawned.  It  was  a  tunnel 
made  of  three-foot  aqueduct  tiles;  and  it  led  straight  into 
Star  Pond,  two  hundred  feet  away. 

Now,  as  she  straightened  up  and  looked  silently  at  Stor- 
mont,  they  heard  the  trample  of  boots  in  the  kitchen,  voices, 
the  bang  of  gun-stocks. 

"Does  that  drain  lead  into  the  lake?"  whispered  Stormont. 

She  nodded. 

"Will  you  follow  me,  Eve?" 

She  pushed  him  aside,  indicating  that  he  was  to  follow 
her. 

As  she  stripped  the  hunting  jacket  from  her,  a  hot  colour 
swept  her  face.  But  she  dropped  on  both  knees,  crept 
straight  into  the  tile  and  slipped  out  of  sight. 

As  she  disappeared,  Quintana  shouted  something  in  Por- 
tuguese, and  fired  at  the  lock. 

With  the  smash  of  splintering  wood  in  his  ears,  Stormont 
slid  into  the  smooth  tunnel. 

In  an  instant  he  was  shooting  down  a  polished  toboggan 
slide,  and  in  another  moment  was  imder  the  icy  water  of 
Star  Pond. 

Shocked,  blinded,  fighting  his  way  to  the  surface,  he  felt 
his  spurred  boots  dragging  at  him  like  a  ton  of  iron.  Then 
to  him  came  her  helping  hand. 

"I  can  make  it,"  he  gasped. 

But  his  clothing  and  his  boots  and  the  icy  water  began  to 
tell  on  him  in  mid-lake. 

Swimming  without  effort  beside  him,  watching  his  every 
stroke,  presently  she  sank  a  little  and  glided  under  him  and  a 
little  ahead,  so  that  his  hands  fell  upon  her  shoulders. 

He  let  them  rest,  so,  aware  now  that  it  was  no  burden  to 


156  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

such  a  swimmer.  Supple  and  silent  as  a  swimming  otter,  the 
girl  slipped  lithely  through  the  chilled  water,  which  washed 
his  body  to  the  nostrils  and  numbed  his  legs  till  he  could 
scarcely  move  them. 

And  now,  of  a  sudden,  his  feet  touched  gravel.  He  stum- 
bled forward  in  the  shadow  of  overhanging  trees  and  saw  her 
wading  shoreward,  a  dripping,  silvery  shape  on  the  shoal. 

Then,  as  he  staggered  up  to  her,  breathless,  where  she 
was  standing  on  the  pebbled  shore,  he  saw  her  join  both 
hands,  cup-shape,  and  lift  them  to  her  lips. 

And  out  of  her  mouth  poured  diamond,  sapphire,  and 
emerald  in  a  dazzling  stream, — and,  among  them,  one  great, 
flashing  gem  blazing  in  the  starlight, — the  Flaming  Jewel ! 

Like  a  naiad  of  the  lake  she  stood,  white,  slim,  silent,  the 
heaped  gems  glittering  in  her  snowy  hands,  her  face  framed 
by  the  curling  masses  of  her  wet  hair. 

Then,  slowly  she  turned  her  head  to  Stormont. 

"These  are  what  Quintana  came  for,"  she  said.  "Could 
you  put  them  into  your  pocket?" 


Episode  Eight 
CUP  AND  LIP 


'X^WO  miles  beyond  Clinch's  Dump,  Hal  Smith  pulled 
Stormont's  horse  to  a  walk.  He  was  tremendously 
excited. 

With  naive  sincerity  he  believed  that  what  he  had  done  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  had  been  the  only  thing  to  do. 

By  snatching  the  Flaming  Jewel  from  Quintana's  very 
fingers  he  had  diverted  that  vindictive  bandit's  fury  from 
Eve,  from  Clinch,  from  Stormont,  and  had  centred  it  upon 
himself. 

More  than  that,  he  had  sown  the  seeds  of  suspicion  among 
Quintana's  own  people.  They  never  could  discover  Salzar's 
body.  Always  they  must  believe  that  it  was  Nicolas  Salzar 
and  no  other  who  so  treacherously  robbed  them,  and  who 
rode  away  in  a  rain  of  bullets,  shaking  the  emblazoned 
morocco  case  above  his  masked  head  in  triumph,  derision 
and  defiance. 

At  the  recollection  of  what  had  happened,  Hal  Smith  drew 
bridle,  and,  sitting  his  saddle  there  in  the  false  dawn,  threw 
back  his  handsome  head  and  laughed  until  the  fading  stars 
overhead  swam  in  his  eyes  through  tears  of  sheerest  mirth. 

For  he  was  still  young  enough  to  have  had  the  time  of  his 
life.    Nothing  in  the  Great  War  had  so  thrilled  him.    For,  in 

157 


158  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

what  had  just  happened,  there  was  humour.  There  had  been 
none  in  the  Great  Grim  Drama. 

Still,  Smith  began  to  realise  that  he  had  taken  the  long, 
long  chance  of  the  opportunist  who  rolls  the  bones  with 
Death.  He  had  kept  his  pledge  to  the  little  Grand  Duchess. 
It  was  a  clean  job.    It  was  even  good  drama 

The  picturesque  angle  of  the  affair  shook  Hal  Smith  with 
renewed  laughter.  As  a  moving  picture  hero  he  thought 
himself  the  funniest  thing  on  earth. 

From  the  time  he  had  poked  a  pistol  against  Sard's  fat 
paunch,  to  this  bullet-pelted  ride  for  life,  life  had  become  one 
ridiculously  exciting  episode  after  another. 

He  had  come  through  like  the  hero  in  a  best-seller.  .  .  . 
Lacking  only  a  heroine.  ...  If  there  had  been  any  heroine 
it  was  Eve  Strayer.  Drama  had  gone  wrong  in  that  detail. 
...  So  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  real  life  he  had  been  living 
and  not  drama.  Drama,  for  the  masses,  must  have  a  definite 
beginning  and  ending.  Real  life  lacks  the  latter.  In  life 
nothing  is  finished.  It  is  always  a  premature  curtain  which 
is  yanked  by  that  doddering  old  stage-hand,  Johnny  Death. 

Smith  sat  his  saddle,  thinking,  beginning  to  be  sobered 
now  by  the  inevitable  reaction  which  follows  excitement  and 
mirth  as  relentlessly  as  care  dogs  the  horseman. 

He  had  had  a  fine  time, — save  for  the  horror  of  the  Rock- 
trail.  ...  He  shuddered.  .  .  .  Anyway,  at  worst  he  had 
not  shirked  a  clean  deal  in  that  ghastly  game.  ...  It  was 
God's  mercy  that  he  was  not  lying  where  Salzar  lay,  ten 
feet  —  twenty  —  a  hundred  deep,  perhaps  —  in  immemorial 
slime 


CUP  AND  LIP  159 

He  shook  himself  in  his  saddle  as  though  to  be  rid  of  the 
creeping  horror,  and  wiped  his  clammy  face. 

Now,  in  the  false  dawn,  a  blue- jay  aw^oke  somewhere 
among  the  oaks  and  filled  the  misty  silence  with  harsh  grace- 
notes. 

Then  reaction,  setting  in  like  a  tide,  stirred  more  sombre 
depths  in  the  heart  of  this  young  man. 

He  thought  of  Riga;  and  of  the  Red  Terror;  of  murder  at 
noon-day,  and  outrage  by  night.  He  remembered  his  only 
encounter  with  a  lovely  child — once  Grand  Duchess  of 
Esthonia — then  a  destitute  refugee  in  silken  rags. 

What  a  day  that  had  been.  .  ,  .  Only  one  day  and  one 
evening.  .  .  .  And  never  had  he  been  so  near  in  love  in  all 
his  life.  .  .  . 

That  one  day  and  evening  had  been  enough  for  her  to  con- 
fide to  an  American  officer  her  entire  life's  history.  .  .  . 
Enough  for  him  to  pledge  himself  to  her  service  while  life 
endured.  .  .  .  And  if  emotion  had  swept  every  atom  of 
reason  out  of  his  youthful  head,  there  in  the  turmoil  and 
alarm — there  in  the  terrified,  riotous  city  jammed  with 
refugees,  reeking  with  disease,  half  frantic  from  famine  and 
the  filthy,  rising  flood  of  war — if  really  it  all  had  been  merely 
romantic  impulse,  ardour  born  of  overwrought  sentimental- 
ism,  nevertheless,  what  he  had  pledged  that  day  to  a  little 
Grand  Duchess  in  rags,  he  had  fulfilled  to  the  letter  within 
the  hour. 

As  the  false  dawn  began  to  fade,  he  loosened  hunting  coat 
and  cartridge  sling,  drew  from  his  shirt-bosom  the  morocco 
case. 

It  bore  the  arms  and  crest  of  the  Grand  Duchess  Theo- 
dorica  of  Esthonia. 


160  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

His  fingers  trembled  slightly  as  he  pressed  the  jewelled 
spring.     It  opened  on  an  empty  casket. 

In  the  sudden  shock  of  horror  and  astonishment,  his  con- 
vulsive clutch  on  the  spring  started  a  tiny  bell  ringing.  Then, 
under  his  very  nose,  the  empty  tray  slid  aside  revealing 
another  tray  underneath,  set  solidly  with  brilliants.  A  rain- 
bow glitter  streamed  from  the  unset  gems  in  the  silken  tray. 
Like  an  incredulous  child  he  touched  them.  They  were  mag- 
nificently real. 

In  the  centre  lay  blazing  the  great  Erosite  gem, — the 
Flaming  Jewel  itself.  Priceless  diamonds,  sapphires,  emer- 
alds ringed  it.  In  his  hands  he  held  nearly  four  millions  of 
dollars. 

Gingerly  he  balanced  the  emblazoned  case,  fascinated. 
Then  he  replaced  the  empty  tray,  closed  the  box,  thrust  it 
into  the  bosom  of  his  flannel  shirt  and  buttoned  It  In. 

Now  there  was  little  more  for  this  excited  young  man  to 
do.  He  was  through  with  Clinch.  Hal  Smith,  hold-up  man 
and  dish-washer  at  Clinch's  Dump,  had  ended  his  career. 
The  time  had  now  arrived  for  him  to  vanish  and  make  room 
for  James  Darragh. 

Because  there  still  remained  a  very  agreeable  role  for 
Darragh  to  play.  And  he  meant  to  eat  it  up — as  Broadway 
has  it. 

For  by  this  time  the  Grand  Duchess  of  Esthonia — RIcca, 
as  she  was  called  by  her  companion,  Valentine,  the  pretty 
Countess  Orloff-Strelwitz — must  have  arrived  in  New  York. 

At  the  big  hunting  lodge  of  the  late  Henry  Harrod — now 
inherited  by  Darragh — there  might  be  a  letter — perhaps  a 
telegrs% — the  cue  for  Hal  Smith  to  vanish  and  for  James 
Darragh  to  enter,  play  his  brief  but  glittering  part,  and 


CUP  AND  LIP  161 

Darragh's  sequence  of  pleasing  meditations  halted 
abruptly.  .  .  .  To  walk  out  of  the  life  of  the  little  Grand 
Duchess  did  not  seem  to  suit  his  ideas — indefinite  and  hazy 
as  they  were,  so  far. 

He  lifted  the  bridle  from  the  horse's  neck,  divided  curb 
and  snaffle  thoughtfully,  touched  the  splendid  animal  with 
heel  and  knee. 

As  he  cantered  on  into  the  wide  forest  road  that  led  to  his 
late  uncle's  abode,  curiosity  led  him  to  wheel  into  a  narrower 
trail  running  east  along  Star  Pond,  and  from  whence  he 
could  take  a  farewell  view  of  Clinch's  Dump. 

He  smiled  to  think  of  Eve  and  Stormont  there  together, 
and  now  in  safety  behind  bolted  doors  and  shutters. 

He  grinned  to  think  of  Quintana  and  his  precious  crew, 
blood-crazy,  baffled,  probably  already  distrusting  one  an- 
other, yet  running  wild  through  the  night  like  starving 
wolves  galloping  at  hazard  across  a  famine-stricken  waste. 

"Only  wait  till  Stormont  makes  his  report,"  he  thought, 
grinning  more  broadly  still.  "Every  State  Trooper  north  of 
Albany  will  be  after  Sefior  Quintana.  Some  hunting !  And, 
if  he  could  understand,  Mike  Clinch  might  thank  his  stars 
that  what  I've  done  this  night  has  saved  him  his  skin  and 
Eve  a  broken  heart !" 

He  drew  his  horse  to  a  walk,  now,  for  the  path  began  to 
run  closer  to  Star  Pond,  skirting  the  pebbled  shallows  in  the 
open  just  ahead. 

Alders  still  concealed  the  house  across  the  lake,  but  the 
trail  was  already  coming  out  into  the  starlight. 

Suddenly  his  horse  stopped  short,  trembling,  its  ears 
pricked  forward. 

Darragh    sat    listening   intently    for    a   moment.     Then 


162  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

with  infinite  caution,  he  leaned  over  the  cantle  and  gently 
parted  the  alders. 

On  the  pebbled  beach,  full  in  the  starlight,  stood  two  fig- 
ures, one  white  and  slim,  the  other  dark. 

The  arm  of  the  dark  figure  clasped  the  waist  of  the  white 
and  slender  one. 

Evidently  they  had  heard  his  horse,  for  they  stood  motion- 
less, looking  directly  at  the  alders  behind  which  his  horse  had 
halted. 

To  turn  might  mean  a  shot  in  the  back  as  far  as  Darragh 
knew.  He  was  still  masked  with  Salzar's  red  bandanna. 
He  raised  his  rifle,  slid  a  cartridge  into  the  breech,  pressed 
his  horse  forward  with  a  slight  touch  of  heel  and  knee,  and 
rode  slowly  out  into  the  star-dusk. 

What  Stormont  saw  was  a  masked  man,  riding  his  own 
horse,  with  menacing  rifle  half  lifted  for  a  shot !  What  Eve 
Strayer  thought  she  saw  was  too  terrible  for  words.  And 
before  Stormont  could  prevent  her  she  sprang  in  front  of 
him,  covering  his  body  with  her  own. 

At  that  the  horseman  tore  off  his  red  mask : 

"Eve!  Jack  Stormont!  What  the  devil  are  you  doing 
over  here?" 

Stormont  walked  slowly  up  to  his  own  horse,  laid  one 
unsteady  hand  on  its  silky  nose,  kept  it  there  while  dusty, 
velvet  lips  mumbled  and  caressed  his  fingers. 

"I  knew  it  was  a  cavalryman,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  sus- 
pected you,  Jim,  It  was  the  sort  of  crazy  thing  you  were 
likely  to  do.  ...  I  don't  ask  you  what  you're  up  to,  where 
you've  been,  what  your  plans  may  be.  If  you  needed  me 
you'd  have  told  me. 

"But  I've  got  to  have  my  horse  for  Eve.     Her  feet  are 


CUP  AND  LIP  163 

wounded.  She's  in  her  night-dress  and  wringing  wet.  I've 
got  to  set  her  on  my  horse  and  try  to  take  her  through  to 
Ghost  Lake." 

Darragh  stared  at  Stormont,  at  the  ghostly  figure  of  the 
girl  who  had  sunk  down  on  the  sand  at  the  lake's  edge.  Then 
he  scrambled  out  of  the  saddle  and  handed  over  the  bridle. 

"Quintana  came  back,"  said  Stormont.  "I  hope  to  reckon 
with  him  some  day.  ...  I  believe  he  came  back  to  harm 
Eve.  .  .  .  We  got  out  of  the  house.  .  .  .  We  swam  the 
lake.  ...  I'd  have  gone  under  except  for  her " 

In  his  distress  and  overwhelming  mortification,  Darragh 
stood  miserable,  mute,  irresolute. 

Stormont  seemed  to  understand:  "What  you  did,  Jim, 
was  well  meant,"  he  said.  "I  understand.  Eve  will  under- 
stand when  I  tell  her.  But  that  fellow  Quintana  is  a  devil. 
You  can't  draw  a  herring  across  any  trail  he  follows.  I  tell 
you,  Jim,  this  fellow  Quintana  is  either  blood-mad  or  just 
plain  crazy.  Somebody  will  have  to  put  him  out  of  the  way. 
I'll  do  it  if  I  ever  find  him." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Your  people  ought  to  do  that.  .  .  .  Or,  if 
you  like,  I'll  volunteer.  .  .  .  I've  a  little  business  to  transact 
in  New  York,  first.  .  .  .  Jack,  your  tunic  and  breeches  are 
soaked ;  I'll  be  glad  to  chip  in  something  for  Eve.  .  .  .  Wait 
a  moment " 

He  stepped  into  cover,  drew  the  morocco  box  from  his 
grey  shirt,  shoved  it  into  his  hip  pocket. 

Then  he  threw  off  his  cartridge-  belt  and  hunting  coat, 
pulled  the  grey  shirt  over  his  head  and  came  out  in  his 
undershirt  and  breeches,  with  the  other  garments  hanging 
over  his  arm. 

"Give  her  these,"  he  said.     "She  can  button  the  coat 


164  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

around  her  waist  for  a  skirt.  She'd  better  go  somewhere 
and  get  out  of  that  soaking-wet  night-dress " 

Eve,  crouched  on  the  sand,  trying  to  wring  out  and  twist 
up  her  drenched  hair,  looked  up  at  Stormont  as  he  came 
toward  her  holding  out  Darragh's  dry  clothing. 

"You'd  better  do  what  you  can  with  these,"  he  said,  try- 
ing to  speak  carelessly,  .  .  .  "He  says  you'd  better  chuck — 
what  you're  wearing " 

She  nodded  in  flushed  comprehension.  Stormont  walked 
back  to  his  horse,  his  boots  slopping  water  at  every  stride. 

"I  don't  know  any  place  nearer  than  Ghost  Lake  Inn/'  he 
said  .  .  .  "except  Harrod's." 

"That's  where  we're  going,  Jack,"  said  Darragh  cheer- 
fully. 

"That's  your  place,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is.  But  I  don't  want  Eve  to  know  it.  ...  I  think  it 
better  she  should  not  know  me  except  as  Hal  Smith — for  the 
present,  anyway.     You'll  see  to  that,  won't  you?" 

"As  you  wish,  Jim.  .  .  .  Only,  if  we  go  to  your  own 
house " 

"We're  not  going  to  the  main  house.  She  wouldn't,  any- 
way. Clinch  has  taught  that  girl  to  hate  the  very  name  of 
Harrod — hate  every  foot  of  forest  that  the  Harrod  game 
keepers  patrol.  She  wouldn't  cross  my  threshold  to  save  her 
life." 

"I  don't  understand,  but — it's  all  right — whatever  you 
say,  Jim." 

"I'll  tell  you  the  whole  business  some  day.  But  where  I'm 
going  to  take  you  now  is  into  a  brand  new  camp  which  I 
ordered  built  last  spring.  It's  within  a  mile  of  the  State 
Forest  border.     Eve  won't  know  that  it's  Harrod  property. 


CUP  AND  LIP  165 

I've  a  hatchery  there  and  the  State  lets  me  have  a  man  in 
exchange  for  free  fry.  When  I  get  there  I'll  post  my  man. 
...  It  will  be  a  roof  for  to-night,  anyway,  and  breakfast  in 
the  morning,  whenever  you're  ready." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"Only  about  three  miles  east  of  here." 

"That's  the  thing  to  do,  then,"  said  Stormont  bluntly. 

He  dropped  one  sopping-wet  sleeve  over  his  horse's  neck, 
taking  care  not  to  touch  the  saddle.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
handful  of  gems  in  his  pocket;  and  he  wondered  why  Dar- 
ragh  had  said  nothing  about  the  empty  case  for  which  he  had 
so  recklessly  risked  his  life. 

What  this  whole  business  was  about  Stormont  had  no 
notion.  But  he  knew  Darragh.  That  was  sufficient  to 
leave  him  tranquil,  and  perfectly  certain  that  whatever  Dar- 
ragh was  doing  must  be  the  right  thing  to  do. 

Yet — Eve  had  swum  Star  Pond  with  her  mouth  filled  with 
jewels. 

When  she  had  handed  the  morocco  box  to  Quintana,  Stor- 
mont now  realised  that  she  must  have  played  her  last  card  on 
the  utterly  desperate  chance  that  Quintana  might  go  away 
without  examining  the  case. 

Evidently  she  had  emptied  the  case  before  she  left  her 
room.  He  recollected  that,  during  all  that  followed,  Eve  had 
not  uttered  a  single  word.  He  knew  why,  now.  How  could 
she  speak  with  her  mouth  full  of  diamonds  ? 

A  slight  sound  from  the  shore  caused  him  to  turn.  Eve 
was  coming  toward  him  in  the  dusk,  moving  painfully  on  her 
wounded  feet.  Darragh' s  flannel  shirt  and  his  hunting  coat 
buttoned  around  her  slender  waist  clothed  her. 


166  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

The  next  instant  he  was  beside  her,  lifting  her  in  both 
arms. 

As  he  placed  her  in  the  saddle  and  adjusted  one  stirrup  to 
her  bandaged  foot,  she  turned  and  quietly  thanked  Darragh 
for  the  clothing. 

"And  that  was  a  brave  thing  you  did,"  she  added,  " — to 
risk  your  life  for  my  father's  property.  Because  the  mo- 
rocco case  which  you  saved  proved  to  be  empty  does  not 
make  what  you  did  any  the  less  loyal  and  gallant." 

Darragh  gazed  at  her,  astounded;  took  the  hand  she 
stretched  out  to  him;  held  it  with  a  silly  expression  on  his 
features. 

"Hal  Smith,"  she  said  with  perceptible  emotion,  "I  take 
back  what  I  once  said  to  you  on  Owl  Marsh.  No  man  is  a 
real  crook  by  nature  who  did  what  you  have  done.  That  is 
'faithfulness  unto  death' — the  supreme  offer — loyalty " 

Her  voice  broke ;  she  pressed  Darragh's  hand  convulsively 
and  her  lip  quivered. 

Darragh,  with  the  morocco  case  full  of  jewels  buttoned 
into  his  hip  pocket,  stood  motionless,  mutely  swallowing  his 
amazement. 

What  in  the  world  did  this  girl  mean,  talking  about  an 
empty  case  ? 

But  this  was  no  time  to  unravel  that  sort  of  puzzle.  He 
turned  to  Stormont  who,  as  perplexed  as  he,  had  been  listen- 
ing in  silence. 

"Lead  your  horse  forward,"  he  said.  "I  know  the  trail. 
All  you  need  do  is  to  follow  me."  And,  shouldering  his 
rifle,  he  walked  leisurely  into  the  woods,  the  cartridge  belt 
sagging  en  bandouliere  across  his  woollen  undershirt. 


CUP  AND  LIP  167 

II 

When  Stormont  gently  halted  his  horse  it  was  dawn,  and 
Eve,  sagging  against  him  with  one  arm  around  his  neck,  sat 
huddled  up  on  her  saddle  fast  asleep. 

In  a  birch  woods,  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  divide,  stood 
the  log  camp,  dimly  visible  in  the  silvery  light  of  early 
morning. 

Darragh,  cautioning  Stormont  with  a  slight  gesture,  went 
forward,  mounted  the  rustic  veranda,  and  knocked  at  a 
lighted  window. 

A  man,  already  dressed,  came  and  peered  out  at  him,  then 
hurried  to  open  the  door. 

"I  didn't  know  you.  Captain  Darragh "  he  began,  but 

fell  silent  under  the  warning  gesture  that  checked  him. 

"I've  a  guest  outside.  She's  Clinch's  step-daughter.  Eve 
Strayer.  She  knows  me  by  the  name  of  Hal  Smith.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Yes,  sir " 

"Cut  that  out,  too.  I'm  Hal  Smith  to  you,  also.  State 
Trooper  Stormont  is  out  there  with  Eve  Strayer.  He  was  a 
comrade  of  mine  in  Russia.  I'm  Hal  Smith  to  him,  by 
mutual  agreement.    Now  do  you  get  me,  Ralph?" 

"Sure,  Hal.     Go  on ;  spit  it  out !" 

They  both  grinned. 

"You're  a  hootch  runner,"  said  Darragh.  "This  is  .your 
shack.  The  hatchery  is  only  a  blind.  That's  all  you  have  to 
know,  Ralph.  So  put  that  girl  into  my  room  and  let  her 
sleep  till  she  wakes  of  her  own  accord. 

"Stormont  and  I  will  take  two  of  the  guest-bunks  in  the  L. 
And  for  heaven's  sake  make  us  some  coffee  when  you  make 
your  own.    But  first  come  out  and  take  the  horse." 


168  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

They  went  out  together.  Stormont  Hfted  Eve  out  of  the 
saddle.  She  did  not  wake.  Darragh  led  the  way  into  the 
log  house  and  along  a  corridor  to  his  own  room. 

"Turn  down  the  sheets,"  whispered  Stormont.  And,  when 
the  bed  was  ready :    "Can  you  get  a  bath  towel,  Jim?" 

Darragh  fetched  one  from  the  connecting  bath-room. 

"Wrap  it  around  her  wet  hair,"  whispered  Stormont. 
"Good  heavens,  I  wish  there  were  a  woman  here." 

"I  wish  so  too,"  said  Darragh;  "she's  chilled  to  the  bone. 
You'll  have  to  wake  her.  She  can't  sleep  in  what  she's 
wearing;  it's  almost  as  damp  as  her  hair " 

He  went  to  the  closet  and  returned  with  a  man's  morning 
robe,  as  soft  as  fleece. 

"Somehow  or  other  she's  got  to  get  into  that,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Very  well,"  said  Stormont,  reddening.  .  .  .  "If  you'll 
step  out  I'll — manage.  .  .  ."  He  looked  Darragh  straight 
in  the  eyes :    "I  have  asked  her  to  marry  me,"  he  said. 

When  Stormont  came  out  a  great  fire  of  birch-logs  was 
blazing  in  the  living-room,  and  Darragh  stood  there,  his 
elbow  on  the  rough  stone  mantel-shelf. 

Stormont  came  straight  to  the  fire  and  set  one  spurred 
boot  on  the  fender. 

"She's  warm  and  dry  and  sound  asleep,"  he  said.  "I'll 
wake  her  again  if  you  think  she  ought  to  swallow  something 
hot." 

At  that  moment  the  fish-culturist  came  in  with  a  pot  of 
steaming  coffee. 

"This  is  my  friend,  Ralph  Wier,"  said  Darragh.  "I 
think  you'd  better  give  Eve  a  cup  of  coffee."    And,  to  Wier, 


CUP  AND  LIP  169 

"Fill  a  couple  of  hot  water  bags,  old  chap.  We  don't  want 
any  pneumonia  in  this  house." 

When  breakfast  was  ready  Eve  once  more  lay  asleep  with 
a  slight  dew  of  perspiration  on  her  brow. 

Darragh  was  half  starved:  Stormont  ate  little.  Neither 
spoke  at  all  until,  satisfied,  they  rose,  ready  for  sleep. 

At  the  door  of  his  room  Stormont  took  Darragh's  offered 
hand,  understanding  what  it  implied : 

"Thanks,  Jim.  .  .  .  Hers  is  the  loveliest  character  I  have 
ever  known.  ...  If  I  weren't  as  poor  as  a  homeless  dog  I'd 
marry  her  to-morrow.  .  .  .  I'll  do  it  anyway,  I  think.  .  .  . 
I  can't  let  her  go  back  to  Clinch's  Dump !" 

"After  all,"  said  Darragh,  smiling,  "if  it's  only  money 
that  worries  you,  why  not  talk  about  a  job  to  me!" 

Stormont  flushed  heavily:  "That's  rather  wonderful  of 
you,  Jim " 

"Why  ?  You're  the  best  officer  I  had.  Why  the  devil  did 
you  go  into  the  Constabulary  without  talking  to  me?" 

Stormont's  upper  lip  seemed  inclined  to  twitch  but  he 
controlled  it  and  scowled  at  space. 

"Go  to  bed,  you  darned  fool,"  said  Darragh,  carelessly. 
"You'll  find  dry  things  ready.  Ralph  will  take  care  of  your 
uniform  and  boots." 

Then  he  went  into  his  own  quarters  to  read  two  letters 
which,  conforming  to  arrangements  made  with  Mrs.  Ray 
the  day  he  had  robbed  Emanuel  Sard,  were  to  be  sent  to 
Trout  Lodge  to  await  his  arrival. 

Both,  written  from  the  Ritz,  bore  the  date  of  the  day 
before:  the  first  he  opened  was  from  the  Countess  Orloff- 
Strelwitz : 


170  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Dear  Captain  Darragh, 

" — You  are  so  wonderful !  Your  messenger,  with  the 
ten  thousand  dollars  which  you  say  you  already  have 
recovered  from  those  miscreants  who  robbed  Ricca,  came 
aboard  our  ship  before  we  landed.  It  was  a  godsend;  we 
were  nearly  penniless, — and  oh,  so  shabby ! 

"Instantly,  my  friend,  we  shopped,  Ricca  and  I.  Fifth 
Avenue  enchanted  us.  All  misery  was  forgotten  in  the 
magic  of  that  paradise  for  women. 

"Yet,  spendthrifts  that  we  naturally  are,  we  were  not 
silly  enough  to  be  extravagant.  Ricca  was  wild  for 
American  sport-clothes.  I,  also.  Yet — only  two  gowns 
apiece,  excepting  our  sport  clothes.  And  other  neces- 
saries.    Don't  you  think  we  were  economical?" 

"Furthermore,  dear  Captain  Darragh,  we  are  hasten- 
ing to  follow  your  instructions.  We  are  leaving  to-day 
for  your  chateau  in  the  wonderful  forest,  of  which  you 
told  us  that  never-to-be-forgotten   day   in  Riga. 

"Your  agent  is  politeness,  consideration  and  kindness 
itself.  We  have  our  accommodations.  We  leave  New 
York  at  midnight. 

"Ricca  is  so  excited  that  it  is  difficult  for  her  to  re- 
strain her  happiness.  God  knows  the  child  has  seen 
enough  unhappiness  to  quench  the  gaiety   of   anybody ! 

"Well,  all  things  end.  Even  tears.  Even  the  Red  Ter- 
ror shall  pass  from  our  beloved  Russia.  For,  after  all, 
Monsieur,  God  still  lives. 

"Valentine." 

"P.  S.    Ricca  has  written  to  you.    I  have  read  the  letter. 
I  have  let  it  go  uncensored." 

Darragh  went  to  the  door  of  his  room : 

"Ralph!  Ralph!"  he  called.  And,  when  Wier  hurriedly 
appeared : 

"What  time  does  the  midnight  train  from  New  York  get 
into  Five  Lakes  ?" 

"A  little  before  nine " 

"You  can  make  it  in  the  flivver,  can't  you?" 

"Yes,  if  I  start  now/' 

"All  right.     Two  ladies.     You're  to  bring  them  to  the 


CUP  AND  LIP  171 

house,  not  here.    Mrs.  Ray  knows  about  them.     And — get 
back  here  as  soon  as  you  can." 

He  closed  his  door  again,  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  opened 
the  other  letter.  His  hand  shook  as  he  unfolded  it.  He  was 
so  scared  and  excited  that  he  could  scarcely  decipher  the 
angular,  girlish  penmanship : 

"To  dear  Captain  Darragh,  our  champion  and  friend — 

"It  is  difficult  for  me,  Monsieur,  to  express  my  happi- 
ness and  my  deep  gratitude  in  the  so  cold  formality  of  the 
written  page. 

"Alas,  sir,  it  will  be  still  more  difficult  to  find  words 
for  it  when  again  I  have  the  happiness  of  greeting  you 
in  proper  person. 

"Valentine  has  told  you  everything,  she  warns  me,  and  I 
am,  therefore,  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  know  what  I  should 
write   to  you. 

"Yet,  I  know  very  well  what  I  would  write  if  I  dare. 
It  is  this:  that  I  wish  you  to  know — although  it  may  not 
pass  the  censor — that  I  am  most  impatient  to  see  you, 
Monsieur.  Not  because  of  kindness  past,  nor  with  an 
unworthy  expectation  of  benefits  to  come.  But  because 
of  friendship, — the  deepest,  sincerest  of  my  whole  life. 

"Is  it  not  modest  of  a  young  girl  to  say  this?  Yet, 
surely  all  the  world  which  was  once  en  regie,  formal, 
artificial,  has  been  burnt  out  of  our  hearts  by  this  so 
frightful  calamity  which  has  overwhelmed  the  world  with 
fire  and  blood. 

"If  ever  on  earth  there  was  a  time  when  we  might 
venture  to  express  with  candour  what  is  hidden  within 
our  minds  and  hearts,  it  would  seem.  Monsieur,  that  the 
time   is   now. 

"True,  I  have  known  you  only  for  one  day  and  one 
evening.  Yet,  what  happened  to  the  world  in  that  brief 
space  of  time — and  to  us.  Monsieur — brought  us  together 
as  though  our  meeting  were  but  a  blessed  reunion  after 
the  happy  intimacy  of  many  years.  ...  I  speak,  Mon- 
sieur, for  myself.  May  I  hope  that  I  speak,  also,  for 
you? 

"With  a  heart  too  full  to  thank  you,  and  with  expec- 
tations indescribable — but  with  courage,  always,  for  any 
event, — I  take  my  leave  of  you  at  the  foot  of  this  page. 
Like  death — I  trust — my  adieu  is  not  the  end,  but  the 
beginning.     It  is  not  farewell;  it  is  a  greeting  to  him 


172  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

whom  I  most  honour  in  all  the  world.  .  .  .  And  would 
willingly  obey  if  he  shall  command.  And  otherwise — all 
else  that  in  his  mind — and  heart — he  might  desire. 

"Theodorica." 

It  was  the  most  beautiful  love-letter  any  man  ever  re- 
ceived in  all  the  history  of  love. 
And  it  had  passed  the  censor. 

Ill 

It  was  afternoon  when  Darragh  awoke  in  his  bunk,  stiff, 
sore,  confused  in  mind  and  battered  in  body. 

However,  when  he  recollected  where  he  was  he  got  out  of 
bed  in  a  hurry  and  jerked  aside  the  window  curtains. 

The  day  was  magnificent ;  a  sky  of  royal  azure  overhead, 
and  everywhere  the  silver  pillars  of  the  birches  supporting 
their  splendid  canopy  of  ochre,  orange,  and  burnt-gold. 

Wier,  hearing  him  astir,  came  in. 

"How  long  have  you  iDeen  back !  Did  you  meet  the  ladies 
with  your  flivver?"  demanded  Darragh,  impatiently. 

"I  got  to  Five  Lakes  station  just  as  the  train  came  in. 
The  young  ladies  were  the  only  passengers  who  got  out.  I 
waited  to  get  their  two  steamer  trunks  and  then  I  drove  them 
to  Harrod  Place " 

"How  did  they  seem,  Ralph — worn-out — worried — ill?" 

Wier  laughed:  "No,  sir,  they  looked  very  pretty  and 
lively  to  me.  They  seemed  delighted  to  get  here.  They 
talked  to  each  other  in  some  foreign  tongue — Russian,  I 
should  say — at  least,  it  sounded  like  what  we  heard  over  in 
Siberia,  Captain " 

"It  was  Russian.  .  .  .  You  go  on  and  tell  me  while  I  take 
another  hot  bath ! " 


CUP  AND  LIP  17S 

Wier  followed  him  into  the  bath-room  and  vaulted  to  a 
seat  on  the  deep  set  window-sill : 

" — When  they  weren't  talking  Russian  and  laughing 
they  talked  to  me  and  admired  the  woods  and  mountains.  I 
had  to  tell  them  everything — they  wanted  to  see  buffalo  and 
Indians.  And  when  I  told  them  there  weren't  any,  enquired 
for  bears  and  panthers. 

"We  saw  two  deer  on  the  Scaur,  and  a  woodchuck  near 
the  house;  I  thought  they'd  jump  out  of  the  flivver " 

He  began  to  laugh  at  the  recollection:  "No,  sir,  they 
didn't  act  tired  and  sad ;  they  said  they  were  crazy  to  get  into 
their  knickerbockers  and  go  to  look  for  you " 

"Where  did  you  say  I  was?"  asked  Darragh,  drying  him- 
self vigorously. 

"Out  in  the  woods,  somewhere.  The  last  I  saw  of  them,. 
Mrs.  Ray  had  their  hand-bags  and  Jerry  and  Tom  were 
shouldering  their  trunks." 

"I'm  going  up  there  right  away,"  interrupted  Darragh 
excitedly.  " — Good  heavens,  Ralph,  I  haven't  any  clothes 
here,  have  I?" 

"No,  sir.    But  those  you  wore  last  night  are  dry " 

"Confound   it!     I   meant  to   send   some  decent   clothei 

here All  right;  get  me  those  duds  I  wore  yesterday — > 

and  a  bite  to  eat!    I'm  in  a  hurry,  Ralph " 

He  ate  while  dressing,  disgustedly  arraying  himself  in  the 
grey  shirt,  breeches,  and  laced  boots  which  weather,  water, 
rock,  and  brier  had  not  improved. 

In  a  pathetic  attempt  to  spruce  up,  he  knotted  the  red  ban- 
danna around  his  neck  and  pinched  Salzar's  slouch  hat  into 
a  peak. 


174  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"I  look  like  a  hootch-running  Wop,"  he  said.  "Maybe  I 
can  get  into  the  house  before  I  meet  the  ladies " 

"You  look  like  one  of  Clinch's  bums,"  remarked  Wier 
with  native  honesty. 

Darragh,  chagrined,  went  to  his  bunk,  pulled  the  morocco 
case  from  under  the  pillow,  and  shoved  it  into  the  bosom  of 
his  flannel  shirt. 

"That's  the  main  thing  anyway,"  he  thought.  Then, 
turning  to  Wier,  he  asked  whether  Eve  and  Stormont  had 
awakened. 

It  appeared  that  Trooper  Stormont  had  saddled  up  and 
cantered  away  shortly  after  sunrise,  leaving  word  that  he 
must  hunt  up  his  comrade,  Trooper  Lannis,  at  Ghost  Lake. 

"They're  coming  back  this  evening,"  added  Wier.  "He 
asked  you  to  look  out  for  Clinch's  step-daughter." 

"She's  all  right  here.  Can't  you  keep  an  eye  on  her, 
Ralph?" 

"I'm  stripping  trout,  sir.  I'll  be  around  here  to  cook 
dinner  for  her  when  she  wakes  up." 

Darragh  glanced  across  the  brook  at  the  hatchery.  It  was 
only  a  few  yards  away.  He  nodded  and  started  for  the 
veranda : 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  he  said.  "Nobody  is  coming  here  to 
bother  her.  .  .  .  And  don't  let  her  leave,  Ralph,  till  I  get 
back " 

"Very  well,  sir.  But  suppose  she  takes  it  into  her  head  to 
leave " 

Darragh  called  back,  gaily:  "She  can't:  she  hasn't  any 
clothes!"  And  away  he  strode  in  the  gorgeous  sunshine  of 
a  magnificent  autumn  day,  all  the  clean  and  vigorous  youth 


CUP  AND  LIP  175 

of  him  afire  in  anticipation  of  a  reunion  which  the  letter 
from  his  lady-love  had  transfigured  into  a  tryst. 

For,  in  that  amazing  courtship  of  a  single  day,  he  never 
dreamed  that  he  had  won  the  heart  of  that  sad,  white- faced, 
hungry  child  in  rags — silken  tatters  still  stained  with  the 
blood  of  massacre, — the  very  soles  of  her  shoes  still  charred 
by  the  embers  of  her  own  home. 

Yet,  that  is  what  must  have  happened  in  a  single  day  and 
evening.  Life  passes  swiftly  during  such  periods.  Minutes 
lengthen  into  days;  hours  into  years.     The  soul  finds  itself. 

Then  mind  and  heart  become  twin  prophets, — clair- 
voyant concerning  what  hides  behind  the  veil;  comprehend- 
ing with  divine  clair-audience  what  the  Three  Sisters  whis- 
per there — hearing  even  the  whirr  of  the  spindle — the  very 
snipping  of  the  Eternal  Shears ! 

The  soul  finds  itself;  the  mind  knows  itself;  the  heart 
perfectly  understands. 

He  had  not  spoken  to  this  young  girl  of  love.  The  blood 
of  friends  and  servants  was  still  rusty  on  her  skirt's  ragged 
hem. 

Yet,  that  night,  when  at  last  in  safety  she  had  said  good- 
bye to  the  man  who  had  secured  it  for  her,  he  knew  that  he 
was  in  love  with  her.  And,  at  such  crises,  the  veil  that 
hides  hearts  becomes  transparent. 

At  that  instant  he  had  seen  and  known.  Afterward  he 
had  dared  not  believe  that  he  had  known. 

But  hers  had  been  a  purer  courage. 

As  he  strode  on,  the  comprehension  of  her  candour,  her 
honesty,  the  sweet  bravery  that  had  conceived,  created,  and 


176  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

sent  that  letter,  thrilled  this  young  man  until  his  heavy  boots 
sprouted  wings,  and  the  trail  he  followed  was  but  a  path  o£ 
rosy  clouds  over  which  he  floated  heavenward. 

About  half  an  hour  later  he  came  to  his  senses  with  a 
distinct  shock. 

Straight  ahead  of  him  on  the  trail,  and  coming  directly 
toward  him,  moved  a  figure  in  knickers  and  belted  tweed. 

Flecked  sunlight  slanted  on  the  stranger's  cheek  and  bur- 
nished hair,  dappling  face  and  figure  with  moving,  golden 
spots. 

Instantly  Darragh  knew  and  trembled. 

But  Theodorica  of  Esthonia  had  known  him  only  in  his 
uniform. 

As  she  came  toward  him,  lovely  in  her  lithe  and  rounded 
grace,  only  friendly  curiosity  gazed  at  him  from  her  blue 
eyes. 

Suddenly  she  knew  him,  went  scarlet  to  her  yellow  hair, 
then  white :  and  tried  to  speak — but  had  no  control  of  the 
short,  rosy  upper  lip  which  only  quivered  as  he  took  her 
hands. 

The  forest  was  dead  still  around  them  save  for  the  whisper 
of  painted  leaves  sifting  down  from  a  sunlit  vault  above. 

Finally  she  said  in  a  ghost  of  a  voice :  "My  — 
friend.  .  .  ." 

"If  you  accept  his  friendship.  .  .  ." 

"Friendship  is  to  be  shared.  .  .  .  Ours  mingled — on  that 
day.  .  .  .  Your  share  is — as  much  as  pleases  you." 

"All  you  have  to  give  me,  then." 

"Take  it  ...  all  I  have.  .  .  ."  Her  blue  eyes  met  his 
with  a  little  effort.     All  courage  is  an  effort. 


CUP  AND  LIP  177 

Then  that  young  man  dropped  on  both  knees  at  her  feet 
and  laid  his  lips  to  her  soft  hands. 

In  trembling  silence  she  stood  for  a  moment,  then  slowly 
sank  on  both  knees  to  face  him  across  their  clasped  hands. 

So,  in  the  gilded  cathedral  of  the  woods,  pillared  with 
silver,  and  azure-domed,  the  betrothal  of  these  two  was 
sealed  with  clasp  and  lip. 

Awed,  a  little  fearful,  she  looked  into  her  lover's  eyes  with 
a  gaze  so  chaste,  so  oblivious  to  all  things  earthly,  that  the 
still  purity  of  her  face  seemed  a  sacrament,  and  he  scarcely 
dared  touch  the  childish  lips  she  offered. 

But  when  the  sacrament  of  the  kiss  had  been  accom- 
plished, she  rested  one  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  rose,  and 
drew  him  with  her. 

Then  his  moment  came :  he  drew  the  emblazoned  case 
from  his  breast,  opened  it,  and,  in  silence,  laid  it  in  her  hands. 
The  blaze  of  the  jewels  in  the  sunshine  almost  blinded  them. 

That  was  his  moment. 

The  next  moment  was  Quintana's. 

Darragh  hadn't  a  chance.  Out  of  the  bushes  two  pistols 
were  thrust  hard  against  his  stomach.  Quintana's  face  was 
behind  them.  He  wore  no  mask,  but  the  three  men  with 
him  watched  him  over  the  edges  of  handkerchiefs, — over  the 
sights  of  levelled  rifles,  too. 

The  youthful  Grand  Duchess  had  turned  deadly  white. 
One  of  Quintana's  men  took  the  morocco  case  from  her 
hands  and  shoved  her  aside  without  ceremony. 

Quintana  leered  at  Darragh  over  his  levelled  weapons : 

"My  frien'  Smith!"  he  exclaimed  softly.  "So  it  is  you, 
then,  who  have  twice  try  to  rob  me  of  my  property ! 


178  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Ah!  You  recollec'?  Yes?  How  you  have  rob  me  of  a 
pacquet  which  contain  only  some  chocolate?" 

Darragh's  face  was  burning  with  helpless  rage. 

"My  frien',  Smith,"  repeated  Quintana,  "do  you  recollec' 
what  it  was  you  say  to  me  ?  Yes  ?  .  .  .  How  often  it  is  the 
onexpected  which  so  usually  happen  ?  You  are  quite  correc', 
I'ami  Smith.     It  has  happen." 

He  glanced  at  the  open  jewel  box  which  one  of  the 
masked  men  held,  then,  like  lightning,  his  sinister  eyes 
focussed  on  Darragh. 

"So,"  he  said,  "it  was  also  you  who  rob  me  las'  night  of 
my  property.  .  .  .  What  you  do  to  Nick  Salzar,  eh?" 

"Killed  him,"  said  Darragh,  dry  lipped,  nerved  for  death. 
"I  ought  to  have  killed  you,  too,  when  I  had  the  chance.  But 
— I'm  white,  you  see." 

At  the  insult  flung  into  his  face  over  the  muzzles  of  his 
own  pistols,  Quintana  burst  into  laughter. 

"Ah !  You  should  have  shot  me !  You  are  quite  right, 
my  frien'.    I  mus'  say  you  have  behave  ver'  foolish." 

He  laughed  again  so  hard  that  Darragh  felt  his  pistols 
shaking  against  his  body. 

"So  you  have  kill  Nick  Salzar,  eh?"  continued  Quintana 
with  perfect  good  humour.  "My  frien',  I  am  oblige  to  you 
for  what  you  do.  You  are  surprise  ?  Eh  ?  It  is  ver'  simple, 
my  frien'  Smith.  What  I  want  of  a  man  who  can  be  kill? 
Eh  ?    Of  what  use  is  he  to  me  ?     Voila !" 

He  laughed,  patted  Darragh  on  the  shoulder  with  one  of 
his  pistols. 

"You,  now — you  could  be  of  use.  Why?  Because  you 
are  a  better  man  than  was  Nick  Salzar.  He  who  kills  is  bet- 
ter than  the  dead." 


CUP  AND  LIP  179 

Then,  swiftly  his  dark  features  altered : 

"My  frien'  Smith,"  he  said,  "I  have  come  here  for  my 
property,  not  to  kill.  I  have  recover  my  property.  Why 
shall  I  kill  you?  To  say  that  I  am  a  better  man?  Yes,' 
perhaps.  But  also  I  should  be  oblige  to  say  that  also  I  am  a 
fool.     Yaas!     A  poor  dam  fool."  ^ 

Without  shifting  his  eyes  he  made  a  motion  with  orjCpJ'St^l  O^x 
to  his  men.  As  they  turned  and  entered  the  thiglc^  Quitt^  y 
tana's  intent  gaze  became  murderous.  f        ^  '  '-v;*     ^     ^ 

"If  I  mus'  kill  you  I  shall  do  so.    Otherwise  luTgire  l^ffi-^^^    ^'5 
cient  trouble  to  keep  me  from  ennui.    My  frien',  D^bgoing       '^> 
home  to  enjoy  my  property.     If  you  live  or  die  it  s!§*iig^--<^ 
nothing  to  me.    No !    Why,  for  the  pleasure  of  killing  you, 
should  I  bring  your  dirty  gendarmes  on  my  heels?" 

He  backed  away  to  the  edge  of  the  thicket,  venturing  one 
swift  and  evil  glance  at  the  girl  who  stood  as  though  dazed. 

"Listen  attentively,"  he  said  to  Darragh.  "One  of  my 
men  remains  hidden  very  near.  He  is  a  dead  shot.  His  aim 
is  at  your — sweetheart's — body.     You  understan'?" 

"Yes." 

"Ver'  well.     You  shall  not  go  away  for  one  hour  time. 

After  that "  he  took  off  his  slouch  hat  with  a  sweeping 

bow — "you  may  go  to  hell !" 

Behind  him  the  bushes  parted,  closed. 

Jose  Quintana  had  made  his  adieux. 


Episode  Nine 
THE  FOREST  AND   MR.   SARD 


TXT' HEN  at  last  Jose  Quintana  had  secured  what  he  had 
been  after  for  years,  his  troubles  really  began. 

In  his  pocket  he  had  two  million  dollars  worth  of  gems, 
including  the  Flaming  Jewel. 

But  he  was  in  the  middle  of  a  wilderness  ringed  in  by 
hostile  men,  and  obliged  to  rely  for  aid  on  a  handful  of  the 
most  desperate  criminals  in  Europe. 

Those  openly  hostile  to  him  had  a  wide  net  spread  around 
him — wide  of  mesh  too,  perhaps;  and  it  was  through  a 
mesh  he  meant  to  wriggle,  but  the  net  was  intact  from 
Canada  to  New  York. 

Canadian  police  and  secret  agents  held  it  on  the  north: 
this  he  had  learned  from  Jake  Kloon  long  since. 

East,  west  and  south  he  knew  he  had  the  troopers  of  the 
New  York  State  Constabulary  to  deal  with,  and  in  addition 
every  game  warden  and  fire  warden  in  the  State  Forests,  a 
swarm  of  plain  clothes  men  from  the  Metropolis,  and  the 
rural  constabulary  of  every  town  along  the  edges  of  the 
vast  reservation. 

Just  who  was  responsible  for  this  enormous  conspiracy 
to  rob  him  of  what  he  considered  his  own  legitimate  loot 
Quintana  did  not  know. 

180 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  l&l 

Sard's  attorney,  Eddie  Abrams,  believed  that  the  French 
police  instigated  it  through  agents  of  the  United  States 
Secret  Service. 

Of  one  thing  Quintana  was  satisfied,  Mike  Clinch  had 
nothing  to  do  with  stirring  up  the  authorities.  Law-break- 
ers of  his  sort  don't  shout  for  the  police  or  invoke  State 
or  Government  aid. 

As  for  the  status  of  Darragh — or  Hal  Smith,  as  he  sup- 
posed him  to  be — Quintana  took  him  for  what  he  seemed 
to  be,  a  well-bom  young  man  gone  wrong,  Europe  was 
full  of  that  kind.  To  Quintana  there  was  nothing  suspi- 
cious about  Hal  Smith.  On  the  contrary,  his  clever  reck- 
lessness confirmed  that  polished  bandit's  opinion  that  Smith 
was  a  gentleman  degenerated  into  a  crook.  It  takes  an  edu- 
cated imagination  for  a  man  to  do  what  Smith  had  done  to 
him.  If  the  common  crook  has  any  imagination  at  all  it 
never  is  educated. 

Another  matter  worried  Jose  Quintana:  he  was  not  only 
short  on  provisions,  but  what  remained  was  cached  in 
Drowned  Valley ;  and  Mike  Clinch  and  his  men  were  guard- 
ing every  outlet  to  that  sinister  region,  excepting  only  the 
rocky  and  submerged  trail  by  which  he  had  made  his  exit. 

That  was  annoying;  it  cut  off  provisions  and  liquor 
from  Canada,  for  which  he  had  arranged  with  Jake  Kloon. 
For  Kloon's  hootch-runners  now  would  be  stopped  by 
Clinch;  and  not  one  among  them  knew  about  the  rocky 
trail  in. 

All  these  matters  were  disquieting  enough :  but  what 
really  and  most  deeply  troubled  Quintana  was  his  know- 
ledge of  his  own  men. 

He  did  not  trust  one  among  them.     Of   international 


182  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

crookdom  they  were  the  cream.  Not  one  of  them  but 
would  have  murdered  his  fellow  if  the  loot  were  worth  it 
and  the  chances  of  escape  sufficient. 

There  was  no  loyalty  to  him,  none  to  one  another,  no 
"honour  among  thieves'' — and  it  was  Jose  Quintana  who 
knew  that  only  in  romance  such  a  thing  existed. 

No,  he  could  not  trust  a  single  man.  Only  hope  of 
plunder  attached  these  marauders  to  him,  and  merely  be^ 
cause  he  liad  education  and  imagination  enough  to  provide 
what  they  wanted. 

Anyone  among  them  would  murder  and  rob  him  if  op- 
portunity presented. 

Now,  how  to  keep  his  loot;  how  to  get  back  to  Europe 
with  it,  was  the  problem  that  confronted  Quintana  after 
robbing  Darragh.  And  he  determined  to  settle  part  of 
that  question  at  once. 

About  five  miles  from  Harrod  Place,  within  a  hundred 
rods  of  which  he  had  held  up  Hal  Smith,  Quintana  halted, 
seated  himself  on  a  rotting  log,  and  waited  until  his  men 
came  up  and  gathered  around  him. 

For  a  little  while,  in  utter  silence,  his  keen  eyes  trav^ 
elled  from  one  visage  to  the  next,  from  Henri  Picquet  to 
Victor  Georgiades,  to  Sanchez,  to  Sard.  His  intent  scru- 
tiny focussed  on  Sard;  lingered. 

If  there  were  anybody  he  might  trust,  a  little  way,  it 
would  be  Sard. 

Then  a  polite,  untroubled  smile  smoothed  the  pale,  dark 
features  of  Jose  Quintana: 

"Bien,  messieurs,  the  coup  has  been  success.  Yes  ?  Ver' 
well;  in  turn,  then,  en  accord  with  our  custom,  I  shall  dis- 
pose myse'f  to  listen  to  your  good  advice." 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  183 

He  looked  at  Henri  Picquet,  smiled  and  nodded  invita- 
tion to  speak. 

Picquet  shrugged:  "For  me,  mon  capitaine,  eet  ees 
ver'  simple.  We  are  five.  Therefore,  divide  into  five  ze 
gems.  After  zat,  each  one  for  himself  to  make  his  way 
out " 

"Nick  Salzar  and  Harry  Beck  are  in  the  Drowned  Val- 
ley," interrupted  Quintana. 

Picquet  shrugged  again;  Sanchez  laughed,  saying:  "If 
they  are  there  it  is  their  misfortune.  Also,  we  others  are  in 
a  hurry." 

Picquet  added :    "Also  five  shares  are  sufficient  division." 

"It  is  propose,  then,  that  we  abandon  our  comrades  Beck 
and  Salzar  to  the  rifle  of  Mike  Clinch?" 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Georgiades  sullenly; — "we  shall 
have  worse  to  face  before  we  see  the  Place  de  I'Opera." 

"There  remains,  also,  Eddie  Abrams,"  remarked  Quin- 
tana. 

Crooks  never  betray  their  attorney.  Everybody  ex- 
pressed a  willingness  to  have  the  five  shares  of  plunder 
properly  assessed  to  satisfy  the  fee  due  to  Mr.  Abrams. 

"Ver'  well,"  nodded  Quintana,  "are  you  satisfy,  mes- 
sieurs, to  divide  an'  disperse?" 

Sard  said,  heavily,  that  they  ought  to  stick  together  until 
they  arrived  in  New  York. 

Sanchez  sneered,  accusing  Sard  of  wanting  a  bodyguard 
to  escort  him  to  his  own  home.  "In  this  accursed  forest," 
he  insisted,  "five  of  us  would  attract  attention  where  one 
alone,  with  sufficient  stealth,  can  slip  through  into  the  open 
country." 


184  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Two  by  two  is  better,"  said  Picquet.  "You,  Sanchez, 
shall  travel  alone  if  you  desire " 

"Divide  the  gems  first,"  growled  Georgiades,  "and  then 
let  each  do  what  pleases  him." 

"That,"  nodded  Quintana,  "is  also  my  opinion.  It  is 
so  settle.  Attention!"  Two  pistols  were  in  his  hands  as 
by  magic.  With  a  slight  smile  he  laid  them  on  the  moss 
beside  him. 

He  then  spread  a  large  white  handkerchief  flat  on  the 
ground ;  and,  from  his  pockets,  he  poured  out  the  glittering 
cascade.  Yet,  like  a  feeding  panther,  every  sense  remained 
alert  to  the  slightest  sound  or  movement  elsewhere;  and 
when  Georgiades  grunted  from  excess  emotion,  Quintana's 
right  hand  held  a  pistol  before  the  grunt  had  ceased. 

It  was  a  serious  business,  this  division  of  loot;  every 
reckless  visage  reflected  the  strain  of  the  situation. 

Quintana,  both  pistols  in  his  hands,  looked  down  at  the 
scintillating  heap  of  jewels. 

"I  estimate  two  and  one  quartaire  million  of  dollaires," 
he  said  simply.  "It  has  been  agree  that  I  accep'  for  me 
the  erosite  gem  known  as  The  Flaming  Jewel.  In  addi- 
tion, messieurs,  it  has  been  agree  that  I  accep'  for  myse'f 
one  part  in  five  of  the  remainder." 

A  fierce  silence  reigned.  Every  wolfish  eye  was  on  the 
leader.    He  smiled,  rested  his  pair  of  pistols  on  either  knee. 

"Is  there,"  he  asked  softly,  "any  gentleman  who  shall 
objec'?" 

"Who,"  demanded  Georgiades  hoarsely,  "is  to  divide 
for  us?" 

"It  is  for  such  purpose,"  explained  Quintana  suavely, 
"that  my  frien',  Emanuel  Sard,  has  arrive.    Monsieur  Sard 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  185 

is  a  brokaire  of  dianion's,  as  all  know  ver'  well.  There- 
fore, it  shall  be  our  frien'  Sard  who  will  divide  for  us 
what  we  have  gain  to-day  by  our — industry." 

The  savage  tension  broke  with  a  laugh  at  the  word  chosen 
by  Ouintana  to  express  their  efforts  of  the  morning. 

Sard  had  been  standing  with  one  fat  hand  flat  against 
the  trunk  of  a  tree.  Now,  at  a  nod  from  Quintana,  he 
squatted  down,  and,  with  the  same  hand  that  had  been 
resting  against  the  tree,  he  spread  out  the  pile  of  jewels 
into  a  flat  layer. 

As  he  began  to  divide  this  into  five  parts,  still  using  the 
flat  of  his  pudgy  hand,  something  poked  him  lightly  in  the 
ribs.     It  was  the  muzzle  of  one  of  Quintana's  pistols. 

Sard,  ghastly  pale,  looked  up.  His  palm,  sticky  with 
balsam  gum,  quivered  in  Quintana's  grasp. 

"I  was  going  to  scrape  it  off,"  he  gasped.  "The  tree  was 
sticky " 

Quintana,  with  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol,  detached  half 
a  dozen  diamonds  and  rubies  that  clung  to  the  gum  on  Mr. 
Sard's  palm. 

"Wash!"  he  said  drily. 

Sard,  sweating  with  fear,  washed  his  right  hand  with 
whiskey  from  his  pocket-flask,  and  dried  it  for  general  in- 
spection. 

"My  God,"  he  protested  tremulously,  "it  was  accidental, 
gentlemen.  Do  you  think  I'd  try  to  get  away  with  any- 
thing like  that " 

Quintana  coolly  shoved  him  aside  and  with  the  barrel  of 
his  pistol  he  pushed  the  flat  pile  of  gems  into  five  separate 
heaps.  Only  he  and  Georgiades  knew  that  a  magnificent 
diamond  had  been  lodged  in  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol.    The 


186  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

eyes  of  the  Greek  flamed  with  rage  at  the  trick,  but  he 
awaited  the  division  before  he  should  come  to  any  con- 
clusion. 

Quintana  coolly  picked  out  The  Flaming  Jewel  and 
pocketed  it.  Then,  to  each  man  he  indicated  the  heap  which 
was  to  be  his  portion. 

A  snarling  wrangle  instantly  began,  Sanchez  objecting 
to  rubies  and  demanding  more  emeralds,  and  Picquet  com- 
plaining violently  concerning  the  smallness  of  the  diamonds 
allotted  him. 

Sard's  trained  eyes  appraised  every  allotment.  With- 
out weighing,  and,  lacking  time  and  paraphernalia  for  ex- 
pert examination,  he  was  inclined  to  think  the  division  fair 
enough. 

Quintana  got  to  his  feet  lithely. 

"For  me,"  he  said,  "it  is  finish.  With  my  frien'  Sard 
I  shall  now  depart.  Messieurs,  I  embrace  and  salute  you. 
A  bientot  in  Paris — if  it  be  God's  will!  Done — au  revoir, 
les  amis,  et  a  la  bonheur!  Allons!  Each  for  himself  and 
gar'  aux  flics!" 

Sard,  seized  with  a  sort  of  still  terror,  regarded  Quin- 
tana with  enormous  eyes.  Torn  between  dismay  of  being 
left  alone  in  the  wilderness,  and  a  very  natural  fear  of  any 
single  companion,  he  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do. 

En  masse,  the  gang  were  too  distrustful  of  one  another 
to  unite  on  robbing  any  individual.  But  any  individual 
might  easily  rob  a  companion  when  alone  with  him. 

"Why — why  can't  we  all  go  together,"  he  stammered. 
"It  is  safer,  surer-^ " 

"I  go  with  Quintana  and  you,"  interrupted  Georgiades, 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  187 

smilingly;  his  mind  on  the  diamond  in  the  muzzle  of  Quin- 
tana's  pistol. 

"I  do  not  invite  you,"  said  Quintana.  "But  come  if  it 
pleases  you." 

"I  also  prefer  to  come  with  you  others,"  growled  San- 
chez. "To  roam  alone  in  this  filthy  forest  does  not  suit 
me." 

Picquet  shrugged  his  shoulders,  turned  on  his  heel  in 
silence.  They  watched  him  moving  away  all  alone,  east- 
ward. When  he  had  disappeared  among  the  trees,  Quin- 
tana looked  inquiringly  at  the  others. 

"Eh,  bien,  non  alors!"  snarled  Georgiades  suddenly. 
"There  are  too  many  in  your  trupeau,  mon  capitaine. 
Bonne  chance!" 

He  turned  and  started  noisily  in  the  direction  taken  by 
Picquet. 

They  watched  him  out  of  sight;  listened  to  his  careless 
trample  after  he  was  lost  to  view.     When  at  length  the 
last  distant  sound  of  his  retreat  had  died  away  in  the  still- 
ness, Quintana  touched  Sard  with  the  point  of  his  pistol. 
"Go  first,"  he  said  suavely. 

"For  God's  sake,  be  a  little  careful  of  your  gun " 

"I  am,  my  dear  frien'.  It  is  of  you  I  may  become  care- 
less. You  will  mos'  kin'ly  face  south,  and  you  will  be  kin' 
sufficient  to  start  immediate.  Tha's  what  I  mean.  ...  I 
thank  you.  .  .  .  Now,  my  frien',  Sanchez !  Tha's  correc' ! 
You  shall  follow  my  frien'  Sard  ver'  close.  Me,  I  march 
in  the  rear.  So  we  shall  pass  to  the  eas'  of  thees  Star  Pon', 
then  between  the  cross-road  an'  Ghos'  Lake;  an'  then  we 
shall  repose;  an'  one  of  us,  en  vidette,  shall  discover  if 
the  Constabulary  have  patrol  beyon'.  .  .  .  Allons !  March  1" 


188  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

II 

Guided  by  Quintana's  directions,  the  three  had  made  a 
wide  detour  to  the  east,  steering  by  compass  for  the  cross- 
roads beyond  Star  Pond. 

In  a  dense  growth  of  cedars,  on  a  httle  ridge  traversing 
wet  land,  Quintana  halted  to  listen. 

Sard  and  Sanchez,  supposing  him  to  be  at  their  heels, 
continued  on,  pushing  their  way  blindly  through  the  cedars, 
clinging  to  the  hard  ridge  in  terror  of  sink-holes.  But  their 
progress  was  very  slow;  and  they  were  still  in  sight,  fight- 
ing a  painful  path  amid  the  evergreens,  when  Quintana  sud- 
denly squatted  close  to  the  moist  earth  behind  a  juniper 
bush. 

At  first,  except  for  the  threshing  of  Sard  and  Sanchez 
through  the  massed  obstructions  ahead,  there  was  not  a 
sound  in  the  woods. 

After  a  little  while  there  was  a  sound — ^very,  very  slight. 
No  dry  stick  cracked;  no  dry  leaves  rustled;  no  swish  of 
foliage;  no  whipping  sound  of  branches  disturbed  the  in- 
tense silence. 

But,  presently,  came  a  soft,  swift  rhythm  like  the  pace 
of  a  forest  creature  in  haste — a  discreetly  hurrying  tread 
which  was  more  a  series  of  light  earth-shocks  than  sound. 

Quintana,  kneeling  on  one  knee,  lifted  his  pistol.  He 
already  felt  the  slight  vibration  of  the  ground  on  the  hard 
ridge.  The  cedars  were  moving  just  beyond  him  now.  He 
waited  until,  through  the  parted  foliage,  a  face  appeared. 

The  loud  report  of  his  pistol  struck  Sard  with  the  hor- 
ror of  paralysis.  Sanchez  faced  about  with  one  spring, 
snarling,  a  weapon  in  either  hand. 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  189 

In  the  terrible  silence  they  could  hear  something  heavy 
floundering  in  the  bushes,  choking,  moaning,  thudding  on 
the  ground. 

Sanchez  began  to  creep  back ;  Sard,  more  dead  than  alive, 
crawled  at  his  heels.  Presently  they  saw  Quintana,  waist 
deep  in  juniper,  looking  down  at  something. 

And  when  they  drew  closer  they  saw  Georgiades  lying  on 
his  back  under  a  cedar,  the  whole  front  of  his  shirt  from 
chest  to  belly  a  sopping  mess  of  blood. 

There  seemed  no  need  of  explanation.  The  dead  Greek 
lay  there  where  he  had  not  been  expected,  and  his  two  pis- 
tols lay  beside  him  where  they  had  fallen. 

Sanchez  looked  stealthily  at  Quintana,  who  said  softly: 

"Bien  sure.  ...  In  his  left  side  pocket,  I  believe." 

Sanchez  laid  a  cool  hand  on  the  dead  man's  heart;  then, 
satisfied,  rummaged  until  he  found  Georgiades'  share  of 
the  loot. 

Sard,  hurriedly  displaying  a  pair  of  clean  but  shaky 
hands,  made  the  division. 

When  the  three  men  had  silently  pocketed  what  was  al- 
lotted to  each,  Quintana  pushed  curiously  at  the  dead  man 
with  the  toe  of  his  shoe. 

"Peste!"  he  remarked.  "I  had  place,  for  security,  a  ver' 
large  diamon'  in  my  pistol  barrel.  Now  it  is  within  the  in- 
terior of  this  gentleman.  .  .  ."  He  turned  to  Sanchez :  "I 
sell  him  to  you.     One  sapphire.     Yes  ?" 

Sanchez  shook  his  head  with  a  slight  sneer :  "We  wait — » 
if  you  want  your  diamond,  mon  capitaine." 

Quintana  hesitated,  then  made  a  grimace  and  shook  his 
head. 


190  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"No,"  he  said,  "he  has  swallow.  Let  him  digest.  Al- 
lons!     March!" 

But  after  they  had  gone  on — two  hundred  yards,  perhaps 
— Sanchez  stopped. 

"Well?"  inquired  Quintana.  Then,  with  a  sneer:  "I 
now  recollec'  that  once  you  have  been  a  butcher  in  Madrid. 
.  .  .   Suit  your  tas'e,  I'ami  Sanchez." 

Sard  gazed  at  Sanchez  out  of  sickened  eyes. 

"You  keep  away  from  me  until  you've  washed  yourself," 
he  burst  out,  revolted.  "Don't  you  come  near  me  till  you're 
clean!" 

Quintana  laughed  and  seated  himself.  Sanchez,  with  a 
hang-dog  glance  at  him,  turned  and  sneaked  back  on  the 
trail  they  had  traversed.  Before  he  was  out  of  sight  Sard 
saw  him  fish  out  a  Spanish  knife  from  his  hip  pocket  and 
unclasp  it. 

Almost  nauseated,  he  turned  on  Quintana  in  a  sort  of 
frightened  fury: 

"Come  on!"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  don't  want  to  travel 
with  that  man !  I  won't  associate  with  a  ghoul !  My  God, 
I'm  a  respectable  business  man " 

"Yaas,"  drawled  Quintana,  "tha's  what  I  saw  always 
myse'f;  my  frien'  Sard  he  is  ver'  respec'able,  an'  I  trus' 
him  like  I  trus'  myse'f." 

However,  after  a  moment,  Quintana  got  up  from  the 
fallen  tree  where'  he  had  been  seated. 

As  he  passed  Sard  he  looked  curiously  into  the  man's 
frightened  eyes.  There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
Sard  was  a  coward. 

"You  shall  walk  behin'  me,"   remarked  Quintana  care- 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  191 

lessly.     "If  Sanchez  fin'  us,  it  is  well;  if  he  shall  not,  that 
also  is  ver'  well.  .  .  .  We  go,  now." 

Sanchez  made  no  eflfort  to  find  them.  They  had  been 
gone  half  an  hour  before  he  had  finished  the  business  that 
had  turned  him  back. 

After  that  he  wandered  about  hunting  for  water — a  riv- 
ulet, a  puddle,  anything.  But  the  wet  ground  proved  wet 
only  on  the  surface  moss.  Sanchez  needed  more  than  damp 
moss  for  his  toilet.  Casting  about  him,  hither  and  thither, 
for  some  depression  that  might  indicate  a  stream,  he  came 
to  a  heavily  wooded  slope,  and  descended  it. 

There  was  a  bog  at  the  foot.  With  his  fouled  hands  he 
dug  out  a  basin  which  filled  up  full  of  reddish  water,  dis- 
coloured by  alders. 

But  the  water  was  redder  still  when  his  toilet  ended. 

As  he  stood  there,  examining  his  clothing,  and  washing 
what  he  could  of  the  ominous  stains  from  sleeve  and  shoe, 
very  far  away  to  the  north  he  heard  a  curious  noise — a  far, 
faint  sound  such  as  he  never  before  had  heard. 

If  it  were  a  voice  of  any  sort  there  was  nothing  human 
about  it.  .  .  .  Probably  some  sort  of  unknown  bird.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  a  bird  of  prey.  .  .  .  That  was  natural,  consider- 
ing the  attraction  that  Georgiades  would  have  for  such 
creatures.  ...  If  it  were  a  bird  it  must  be  a  large  one,  he 
thought.  .  .  .  Because  there  was  a  certain  volume  to  the 
cry.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  a  beast,  after  all.  .  .  .  Some  un- 
known beast  of  the  forest.  .  .  . 

Sanchez  was  suddenly  afraid.  Scarcely  knowing  what 
he  was  doing  he  began  to  run  along  the  edge  of  the  bog. 


192  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

First  growth  timber  skirted  it;  running  was  unob- 
structed by  underbrush. 

With  his  startled  ears  full  of  the  alarming  and  unknown 
sound,  he  ran  through  the  woods  under  gigantic  pines  which 
spread  a  soft  green  twilight  around  him. 
t  He  was  tired,  or  thought  he  was,  but  the  alarming  sounds 
were  filling  his  ears  now;  the  entire  forest  seemed  full  of 
them,  echoing  in  all  directions,  coming  in  upon  him  from 
everywhere,  so  that  he  knew  not  in  which  direction  to  run. 

But  he  could  not  stop.  Demoralised,  he  darted  this  way 
and  that ;  terror  winged  his  feet ;  the  air  vibrated  above  and 
around  him  with  the  dreadful,  unearthly  sounds. 

The  next  instant  he  fell  headlong  over  a  ledge,  struck 
water,  felt  himself  whirled  around  in  the  icy,  rushing  cur- 
rent, rolled  over,  tumbled  through  rapids,  blinded,  deaf- 
ened, choked,  swept  helplessly  in  a  vast  green  wall  of  water 
toward  something  that  thundered  in  his  brain  an  instant, 
then  dashed  it  into  roaring  chaos. 

Half  a  mile  down  the  turbulent  outlet  of  Star  Pond, — 
where  a  great  sheet  of  green  water  pours  thirty  feet  into 
the  tossing  foam  below, — and  spinning,  dipping,  diving, 
bobbing  up  like  a  lost  log  after  the  drive,  the  body  of  Sefior 
Sanchez  danced  all  alone  in  the  wilderness,  spilling  from 
soggy  pockets  diamonds,  sapphires,  rubies,  emeralds,  into 
crystal  caves  where  only  the  shadows  of  slim  trout  stirred. 

Very  far  away  to  the  eastward  Quintana  stood  listening, 
clutching  Sard  by  one  sleeve  to  silence  him. 

Presently  he  said:  "My  frien',  somebody  is  hunting 
with  houn's  in  this  fores'. 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  19S 

"Maybe  they  are  not  hunting  ns.  .  .  .  Maybe.  .  .  ,  But, 
for  me,  I  shall  seek  running  water.  Go  you  your  own  way ! 
Houp!    Vamose!" 

He  turned  westward;  but  he  had  taken  scarcely  a  dozen 
strides  when  Sard  came  panting  after  him: 

"Don't  leave  me!"  gasped  the  terrified  diamond  broker. 
"I  don't  know  where  to  go " 

Quintana  faced  him  abruptly — with  a  terrifying  smile 
and  glimmer  of  white  teeth — and  shoved  a  pistol  into  the 
fold  of  fat  beneath  Sard's  double  chin : 

"You  hear  those  dogs?  Yes?  Ver'  well;  I  also.  Run, 
now.  I  say  to  you  run  ver'  damn  quick.  He!  Houp! 
Allez  vous  en !    Beat  eet !" 

He  struck  Sard  a  stinging  blow  on  his  fleshy  ear  with  the 
pistol  barrel,  and  Sard  gave  a  muffled  shriek  which  was 
more  like  the  squeak  of  a  frightened  animal. 

"My  God,  Quintana "  he  sobbed.     Then  Quintana's 

eyes  blazed  murder:  and  Sard  turned  and  ran  lumbering 
through  the  thicket  like  a  stampeded  ox,  crashing  on  amid 
withered  brake,  white  birch  scrub  and  brier,  not  knowing 
whither  he  was  headed,  crazed  with  terror. 

Quintana  watched  his  flight  for  a  moment,  then,  pistol 
swinging,  he  ran  in  the  opposite  direction,  eastward,  speed- 
ing lithely  as  a  cat  down  a  long,  wooded  slope  which  prom- 
ised running  water  at  the  foot. 

Sard  could  not  run  very  far.  He  could  scarcely  stand 
when  he  pulled  up  and  clung  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 

More  dead  than  alive  he  embraced  the  tree,  gulping  hor- 
ribly for  air,  every  fat-incrusted  organ  labouring,  his 
senses  swimming. 


194  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

As  he  sagged  there,  gripping  his  support  on  shaking 
knees,  by  degrees  his  senses  began  to  return. 

He  could  hear  the  dogs,  now,  vaguely  as  in  a  nightmare. 
But  after  a  little  while  he  began  to  believe  that  their  hys- 
terical yelping  was  really  growing  more  distant. 

Then  this  man  whose  every  breath  was  an  outrage  on 
God,  prayed. 

He  prayed  that  the  hounds  would  follow  Quintana, 
come  up  with  him,  drag  him  down,  worry  him,  tear  him 
to  shreds  of  flesh  and  clothing. 

He  listened  and  prayed  alternately.  After  a  while  he  no 
longer  prayed  but  concentrated  on  his  ears. 

Surely,  surely,  the  diabolical  sound  was  growing  less 
distinct.  ...  It  was  changing  direction  too.  But  whether 
in  Quintana's  direction  or  not  Sard  could  not  tell.  He  was 
no  woodsman.     He  was  completely  turned  around. 

He  looked  upward  through  a  dense  yellow  foliage,  but 
all  was  grey  in  the  sky — very  grey  and  still ; — and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  traces  of  the  sun  that  had  been  shining. 

He  looked  fearfully  around :  trees,  trees,  and  more  trees. 
No  break,  no  glimmer,  nothing  to  guide  him,  teach  him. 
He  could  see,  perhaps,  fifty  feet ;  no  further. 

In  panic  he  started  to  move  on.  That  is  what  fright 
invariably  does  to  those  ignorant  of  the  forest.  Terror 
starts  them  moving. 

Sobbing,  frightened  almost  witless,  he  had  been  flounder- 
ing forward  for  over  an  hour,  and  had  made  circle  after 
circle  without  knowing,  when,  by  chance,  he  set  foot  in  a 
perfectly  plain  trail. 

Emotion  overpowered  him.     He  was  too  overcome  to 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  195 

stir  for  a  while.  At  length,  however,  he  tottered  off  down 
the  trail,  oblivious  as  to  what  direction  he  was  taking, 
animated  only  by  a  sort  of  madness — horror  of  trees — an 
insane  necessity  to  see  open  ground,  get  into  it,  and  lie 
down  on  it. 

And  now,  directly  ahead,  he  saw  clear  grey  sky  low 
through  the  trees.     The  wood's  edge! 

He  began  to  run. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  edge  of  the  woods,  waist-deep 
in  brush  and  weeds,  wide  before  his  blood-shot  eyes  spread 
Star  Pond. 

Even  in  his  half-stupefied  brain  there  was  memory 
enough  !eit  for  recognition. 

He  remembered  the  lake.  His  gaze  travelled  to  the 
westward;  and  he  saw  Clinch's  Dump  standing  below, 
stark,  silent,  the  doors  swinging  open  in  the  wind. 

When  terror  had  subsided  in  a  measure  and  some  of  his 
trembling  strength  returned,  he  got  up  out  of  the  clump 
of  rag-weeds  where  he  had  lain  down,  and  earnestly  nosed 
the  unpainted  house,  listening  with  all  his  ears. 

There  was  not  a  sound  save  the  soughing  of  autumn 
winds  and  the  delicate  rattle  of  falling  leaves  in  the  woods 
behind  him. 

He  needed  food  and  rest.  He  gazed  earnestly  at  the 
house.  Nothing  stirred  there  save  the  open  doors  swing- 
ing idly  in  every  vagrant  wind. 

He  ventured  down  a  little  way — near  enough  to  see  the 
black  cinders  of  the  burned  barn,  and  close  enough  to  hear 
the  lake  waters  slapping  the  sandy  shore. 

If  he  dared 

And  after  a  long  while  he  ventured  to  waddle  nearer, 


196  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

slinking  through  brush  and  frosted  weed,  creeping  behind 
boulders,  edging  always  closer  and  closer  to  that  silent  house 
where  nothing  moved  except  the  wind-blown  door. 

And  now,  at  last,  he  set  a  furtive  foot  upon  the  threshold, 
stood  listening,  tip-toed  in,  peered  here  and  there,  sidled  to 
the  dining-room,  peered  in. 

When,  at  length,  Emanuel  Sard  discovered  that  Clinch's 
Dump  was  tenantless,  he  made  straight  for  the  pantry. 
Here  was  cheese,  crackers,  an  apple  pie,  half  a  dozen  bottles 
of  home-brewed  beer. 

He  loaded  his  arms  with  all  they  could  carry,  stole 
through  the  dance-hall  out  to  the  veranda,  which  over- 
looked the  lake. 

Here,  hidden  in  the  doorway,  he  could  watch  the  road 
from  Ghost  Lake  and  survey  the  hillside  down  which  an 
intruder  must  come  from  the  forest. 

And  here  Sard  slaked  his  raging  thirst  and  satiated  the 
gnawing  appetite  of  the  obese,  than  which  there  is  no 
crueller  torment  to  an  inert  liver  and  distended  paunch. 

Munching,  guzzling,  watching,  Sard  squatted  just  within 
the  veranda  doorway,  anxiously  considering  his  chances. 

He  knew  where  he  was.  At  the  foot  of  the  lake,  and 
eastward,  he  had  been  robbed  by  a  highwayman  on  the 
forest  road  branching  from  the  main  highway.  South- 
west lay  Ghost  Lake  and  the  Inn. 

Somewhere  between  these  two  points  he  must  try  to  cross 
the  State  Road.  .  .  .  After  that,  comparative  safety.  For 
the  miles  that  still  would  lie  between  him  and  distant 
civilisation  seemed  as  nothing  to  the  horror  of  that  hell  of 
trees. 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  197 

He  looked  up  now  at  the  shaggy  fringing  woods,  shud- 
dered, opened  another  bottle  of  beer. 

In  all  that  panorama  of  forest,  swale,  and  water  the 
only  thing  that  had  alarmed  him  at  all  by  moving  was 
something  in  the  water.  When  first  he  noticed  it  he  almost 
swooned,  for  he  took  it  to  be  a  swimming  dog. 

In  his  agitation  he  had  risen  to  his  feet;  and  then  the 
swimming  creature  almost  frightened  Sard  out  of  his 
senses,  for  it  tilted  suddenly  and  went  down  with  a  report 
like  the  crack  of  a  pistol. 

However,  when  Sard  regained  control  of  his  wits  he 
realised  that  a  swimming  dog  doesn't  dive  and  doesn't  whack 
the  water  with  its  tail. 

He  dimly  remembered  hearing  that  beavers  behaved  that 
way. 

Watching  the  water  he  saw  the  thing  out  there  in  the 
lake  again,  swiming  in  erratic  circles,  its  big,  dog-like  head 
well  out  of  the  water. 

It  certainly  was  no  dog.  A  beaver,  maybe.  Whatever 
it  was,  Sard  didn't  care  any  longer. 

Idly  he  watched  it.  Sometimes,  when  it  swam  very  near, 
he  made  a  sudden  motion  with  his  fat  arm;  and  crack! — 
with  a  pistol-shot  report  down  it  dived.  But  always  it  re- 
appeared. 

What  had  a  creature  like  that  to  do  with  him?  Sard 
watched  it  with  failing  interest,  thinking  of  other  things — 
of  Quintana  and  the  chances  that  the  dogs  had  caught  him, 
— of  Sanchez,  the  Ghoul,  hoping  that  dire  misfortune 
might  overtake  him,  too; — of  the  dead  man  sprawling  under 
the  cedar-tree,  all  sopping  crimson Faugh! 

Shivering,  Sard  filled  his  mouth  with  apple-pie  and  cheese 


198  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

and  pulled  the  cork  from  another  bottle  of  home-brewed 
beer. 

Ill 

About  that  time,  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  southward, 
James  Darragh  came  out  on  the  rocky  and  rushing  outlet 
to  Star  Pond. 

Over  his  shoulder  was  a  rifle,  and  all  around  him  ran 
dogs, — big,  powerful  dogs,  built  like  foxhounds  but  with 
the  rough,  wiry  coats  of  Airedales,  even  rougher  of  ear 
and  features. 

The  dogs, — half  a  dozen  or  so  in  number, — seemed  very 
tired.  All  ran  down  eagerly  to  the  water  and  drank  and 
slobbered  and  panted,  lolling  their  tongues,  and  slaking 
their  thirst  again  and  again  along  the  swirling  edge  of  a 
deep  trout  pool. 

Darragh's  rifle  lay  in  the  hollow  of  his  left  arm;  his 
khaki  waistcoat  was  set  with  loops  full  of  cartridges. 
From  his  left  wrist  hung  a  raw-hide  whip. 

Now  he  laid  aside  his  rifle  and  whip,  took  from  the 
pocket  of  his  shooting  coat  three  or  four  leather  dog- 
leashes,  went  down  among  the  dogs  and  coupled  them  up. 

They  followed  him  back  to  the  bank  above.  Here  he 
sat  down  on  a  rock  and  inspected  his  watch. 

He  had  been  seated  there  for  ten  minutes,  possibly,  with 
his  tired  dogs  lying  around  him,  when  just  above  him  he 
saw  a  State  Trooper  emerge  from  the  woods  on  foot,  car- 
rying a  rifle  over  one  shoulder. 

"Jack !"  he  called  in  a  guarded  voice. 

Trooper  Stormont  turned,  caught  sight  of  Darragh, 
made  a  signal  of  recognition,  and  came  toward  him. 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  199 

Darragh  said:  "Your  mate,  Trooper  Lannis,  is  down 
stream.  I've  two  of  my  own  game  wardens  at  the  cross- 
roads, two  more  on  the  Ghost  Lake  Road,  and  two  foresters 
and  an  inspector  out  toward  Owl  Marsh." 

Stormont  nodded,  looked  down  at  the  dogs. 

"This  isn't  the  State  Forest,"  said  Darragh,  smiling. 
Then  his  face  grew  grave:     "How  is  Eve?"  he  asked. 

"She's  feeling  better,"  replied  Stormont.  "I  telephoned 
to  Ghost  Lake  Inn  for  the  hotel  physician.  ...  I  was 
afraid  of  pneumonia,  Jim.  Eve  had  chills  last  night.  .  .  . 
But  Dr.  Claybourn  thinks  she's  all  right.  ...  So  I  left  her 
in  care  of  your  housekeeper." 

"Mrs.  Ray  will  look  out  for  her.  .  .  .  You  haven't  told 
Eve  who  I  am,  have  you?" 

"No." 

"I'll  tell  her  myself  to-night.  I  don't  know  how  she'll 
take  it  when  she  learns  I'm  the  heir  to  the  mortal  enemy 
of  Mike  Clinch." 

"I  don't  know  either,"  said  Stormont. 

There  was  a  silence;  the  State  Trooper  looked  down  at 
the  dogs: 

"What  are  they,  Jim?" 

"Otter-hounds,"  said  Darragh,  " — a.  breed  of  my  own, 
.  .  .  But  that's  all  they  are  capable  of  hunting,  I  guess," 
he  added  grimly. 

Stormont's  gaze  questioned  him. 

Darragh  said:  "After  I  telephoned  you  this  morning 
that  a  guest  of  mine  at  Harrod  Place,  and  I,  had  been  stuck 
up  and  robbed  by  Quintana's  outfit,  what  did  you  do. 
Jack?" 

*T  called  up  Bill  Lannis  first,"  said  Stormont,  " — then 


200  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

the  doctor.  After  he  came,  Mrs,  Ray  arrived  with  a  maid. 
Then  I  went  in  and  spoke  to  Eve.  Then  I  did  what  you 
suggested — I  crossed  the  forest  diagonally  toward  The 
Scaur,  zig-zagged  north,  turned  by  the  rock  hog-back  south 
of  Drowned  Valley,  came  southeast,  circled  west,  and  came 
out  here  as  you  asked  me  to," 

"Almost  on  the  minute,"   nodded  Darragh.  .  .  .  "You 
saw  no  signs  of  Quintana's  gang?" 
"None," 

"Well,"  said  Darragh,  "I  left  my  two  guests  at  Harrod 
Place  to  amuse  each  other,  got  out  three  couple  of  my  otter- 
hounds and  started  them, — as  I  hoped  and  supposed, — on 
Quintana's  trail." 

"What  happened?"  inquired  Stormont  curiously. 
"Well — I  don't  know.  I  think  they  were  following  some 
of  Quintana's  gang — for  a  while,  anyway.  After  that,  God 
knows, — deer,  hare,  cotton-tail, — /  don't  know.  They 
yelled  their  bally  heads  off — I  on  the  run — they're  slow 
dogs,  you  know — and  whatever  they  were  after  either 
fooled  them  or  there  were  too  many  trails.  ...  I  made  a 
mistake,  that's  all.  These  poor  beasts  don't  know  any- 
thing except  an  otter.  I  just  hoped  they  might  take  Quin- 
tana's trail  if  I  put  them  on  it." 

"Well,"  said  Stormont,  "it  can't  be  helped  now.  ...  I 
told  Bill  Lannis  that  we'd  rendezvous  at  Clinch's  Dump." 

"All  right,"  nodded  Darragh.  "Let's  keep  to  the  open; 
my  dogs  are  leashed  couples." 

They  had  been  walking  for  twenty  minutes,  possibly,  ex- 
changing scarcely  a  word,  and  they  were  now  nearing  the 
hilly  basin  where  Star  Pond  lay,  when  Darragh  said 
abruptly : 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  201 

"rm  going  to  tell  you  about  things,  Jack.  You've  taken 
my  word  so  far  that  it's  all  right " 

"Naturally,"  said  Stormont  simply. 

The  two  men,  who  had  been  brother  officers  in  the  Great 
War,  glanced  at  each  other,  slightly  smiling. 

"Here  it  is  then,"  said  Darragh.  "When^I  was  on  duty 
in  Riga  for  the  Intelligence  Department,  I  met  two  ladies 
in  dire  distress,  whose  mansion  had  been  burned  and  looted, 
supposedly  by  the  Bolsheviki. 

"They  were  actually  hungry  and  penniless;  the  only 
clothing  they  possessed  they  were  wearing.  These  ladies 
were  the  Countess  Orloff-Strelwitz,  and  a  young  girl,  Theo- 
dorica,  Grand  Duchess  of  Esthonia.  ...  I  did  what  I 
could  for  them.  After  a  while,  in  the  course  of  other  duty, 
I  found  out  that  the  Bolsheviki  had  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  arson  and  robbery,  but  that  the  crime  had  been  per- 
petrated by  Jose  Quintana's  gang  of  international  crooks 
masquerading  as  Bolsheviki." 

Stormont  nodded:  "I  also  came  across  similar  cases," 
he  remarked. 

"Well,  this  was  a  flagrant  example.  Quintana  had  burnt 
the  chateau  and  had  made  off  with  over  two  million  dollars 
worth  of  the  little  Grand  Duchess's  jewels — among  them  the 
famous  Erosite  gem  known  as  The  Flaming  Jewel." 

"I've  heard  of  it." 

"There  are  only  two  others  known.  .  .  .  Well,  I  did 
what  I  could  with  the  Esthonian  police,  who  didn't  believe 
me. 

"But  a  short  time  ago  the  Countess  Orloff  sent  me  word 
that  Quintana  really  was  the  guilty  one,  and  that  he  had 
started  for  America. 


202  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"I've  been  after  him  ever  since.  .  .  .  But,  Jack,  until 
this  morning  Quintana  did  not  possess  these  stolen  jewels. 
Clinch  did!" 

"What!" 

"Clinch  served  over-seas  in  a  Forestry  Regiment.  In 
Paris  he  robbed  Quintana  of  these  jewels.  That's  why 
I've  been  hanging  around  Clinch." 

Stormont's  face  was  flushed  and  incredulous.  Then  it 
lost  colour  as  he  thought  of  the  jewels  that  Eve  had  con- 
cealed— the  gems  for  which  she  had  risked  her  life. 

He  said:  "But  you  tell  me  Quintana  robbed  you  this 
morning." 

"He  did.  The  little  Grand  Duchess  and  the  Countess 
Orloff-Strelwitz  are  my  guests  at  Harrod  Place. 

"Last  night  I  snatched  the  case  containing  these  gems 
from  Quintana's  fingers.  This  morning,  as  I  offered  them 
to  the  Grand  Duchess,  Quintana  coolly  stepped  between 
us " 

His  voice  became  bitter  and  his  features  reddened  with 
rage  poorly  controlled : 

"By  God,  Jack,  I  should  have  shot  Quintana  when  the 
opportunity  offered.  Twice. I've  had  the  chance.  The  next 
time  I  shall*kill  him  any  way  I  can.  .  .  .  Legitimately." 

"Of  course,"  said  Stormont  gravely.  But  his  mind  was 
full  of  the  jewels  which  Eve  had.  What  and  whose  were 
they, — if  Quintana  again  had  the  Esthonian  gems  in  his 
possession  ? 

"Had  you  recovered  all  the  jewels  for  the  Grand  Duch- 
ess ?"  he  asked  Darragh. 

"Every  one.  Jack.  .  .  .  Quintana  has  done  me  a  ter- 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  203 

rible  injury.  I  shan't  let  it  go.  I  mean  to  hunt  that  man 
to  the  end." 

Stormont,  terribly  perplexed,  nodded. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  they  came  out  among  the  wil- 
lows and  alders  on  the  northeast  side  of  Star  Pond,  Stor- 
mont touched  his  comrade's  arm. 

"Look  at  that  enormous  dog-otter  out  there  in  the  lake !" 

"Grab  those  dogs!  They'll  strangle  each  other,"  cried 
Darragh  quickly.  "That's  it — unleash  them.  Jack,  and  let 
them  go!" — he  was  struggling  with  the  other  two  couples 
while  speaking. 

And  now  the  hounds,  unleashed,  lifted  frantic  voices. 
The  very  sky  seemed  full  of  the  discordant  tumult;  wood 
and  shore  reverberated  with  the  volume  of  convulsive  and 
dissonant  baying. 

"Damn  it,"  said  Darragh,  disgusted,  " — that's  what 
they've  been  trailing  all  the  while  across-woods, — that  dev- 
ilish dog-otter  yonder.  .  .  .  And  I  had  hoped  they  were 
on  Quintana's  trail " 

A  mass  rush  and  scurry  of  crazed  dogs  nearly  swept  him 
off  his  feet,  and  both  men  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  large 
bitch-otter  taking  to  the  lake  from  a  ledge  of  rock  just 
beyond. 

Now  the  sky  vibrated  with  the  deafening  outcry  of  the 
dogs,  some  taking  to  water,  others  racing  madly  along  shore. 

Crack!  The  echo  of  the  dog-otter's  blow  on  the  water 
came  across  to  them  as  the  beast  dived. 

"Well,  I'm  in  for  it  now,"  muttered  Darragh,  starting 
along  the  bank  toward  Clinch's  Dump,  to  keep  an  eye  on 
his  dogs. 

Stormont  followed  more  leisurely. 


204  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

IV 

A  few  minutes  before  Darragh  and  Stormont  had  come 
out  on  the  farther  edge  of  Star  Pond,  Sard,  who  had  heard 
from  Quintana  about  the  big  drain  pipe  which  led  from 
Clinch's  pantry  into  the  lake,  decided  to  go  in  and  take  a 
look  at  it. 

He  had  been  told  all  about  its  uses, — how  Clinch, — in 
the  event  of  a  raid  by  State  Troopers  or  Government  en- 
forcement agents, — could  empty  his  contraband  hootch  into 
the  lake  if  necessary, — and  even  could  slide  a  barrel  of  ale 
or  a  keg  of  rum,  intact,  into  the  great  tile  tunnel  and  re- 
cover the  liquor  at  his  leisure. 

Also,  and  grimly,  Quintana  had  admitted  that  through 
this  drain  Eve  Strayer  and  the  State  Trooper,  Stormont, 
had  escaped  from  Clinch's  Dump. 

So  now  Sard,  full  of  curiosity,  went  back  into  the  pantry 
to  look  at  it  for  himself. 

Almost  instantly  the  idea  occurred  to  him  to  make  use 
of  the  drain  for  his  own  safety  and  comfort. 

Why  shouldn't  he  sleep  in  the  pantry,  lock  the  door,  and, 
in  case  of  intrusion, — other  exits  being  unavailable, — why 
shouldn't  he  feel  entirely  safe  with  such  an  avenue  of  es- 
cape open? 

For  swimming  was  Sard's  single  accomplishment.  He 
wasn't  afraid  of  the  water;  he  simply  couldn't  sink.  Swim- 
ming was  the  only  sport  he  ever  had  indulged  in.  He 
adored  it. 

Also,  the  mere  idea  of  sleeping  alone  amid  that  hell  of 
trees  terrified  Sard.  Never  had  he  known  such  horror  as 
when  Quintana  abandoned  him  in  the  woods.    Never  again 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  205 

could  he  gaze  upon  a  tree  without  malignant  hatred.  Never 
again  did  he  desire  to  lay  eyes  upon  even  a  bush.  The 
very  sight,  now,  of  the  dusky  forest  filled  him  with  loath- 
ing. Why  should  he  not  risk  one  night  in  this  deserted 
house, — sleep  well  and  warmly,  feed  well,  drink  his  belly- 
full  of  Clinch's  beer,  before  attempting  the  dead-line  south- 
ward, where  he  was  only  too  sure  that  patrols  were  riding 
and  hiding  on  the  lookout  for  the  fancy  gentlemen  of  Jose 
Quintana's  selected  company  of  malefactors? 

Well,  here  in  the  snug  pantry  were  pies,  crullers,  bread, 
cheeses,  various  dried  meats,  tinned  vegetables,  ham,  bacon, 
fuel  and  range  to  prepare  what  he  desired. 

Here  was  beer,  too;  and  doubtless  ardent  spirits  if  he 
could  nose  out  the  hidden  demijohns  and  bottles. 

He  peered  out  of  the  pantry  window  at  the  forest,  shud- 
dered, cursed  it  and  every  separate  tree  in  it;  cursed  Quin- 
tana,  too,  wishing  him  black  mischance.  No ;  it  was  settled. 
He'd  take  his  chance  here  in  the  pantry.  .  .  .  And  there 
must  be  a  mattress  somewhere  upstairs. 

He  climbed  the  staircase,  cautiously,  discovered  Clinch's 
bedroom,  took  the  mattress  and  blankets  from  the  bed, 
dragged  them  to  the  pantry. 

Could  any  honest  man  be  more  tight  arid  snug  in  this 
perilous  world  of  the  desperate  and  undeserving?  Sard 
thought  not.  But  one  matter  troubled  him :  the  lock  of  the 
pantry  door  had  been  shattered.  To  remedy  this  he  moused 
around  until  he  discovered  some  long  nails  and  a  claw- 
hammer. When  he  was  ready  to  go  to  sleep  he'd  nail  him- 
self in.  And  in  the  morning  he'd  pry  the  door  loose.  That 
was  simple.  Sard  chuckled  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
set  eyes  upon  the  accursed  region. 


206  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

And  now  the  sun  came  out  from  behind  a  low  bank  of 
solid  grey  cloud,  and  fell  upon  the  countenance  of  Emanuel 
Sard.  It  warmed  his  parrot-nose  agreeably ;  it  cheered  and 
enlivened  him. 

Not  for  him  a  night  of  terrors  in  that  horrible  forest 
which  he  could  see  through  the  pantry  window, 

A  sense  of  security  and  of  well-being  pervaded  Sard  to 
his  muddy  shoes.  He  even  curled  his  fat  toes  in  them  with 
animal  contentment, 

A  little  snack  before  cooking  a  heavily  satisfactory  din- 
ner ?     Certainly. 

So  he  tucked  a  couple  of  bottles  of  beer  under  one  arm, 
a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  chunk  of  cheese  under  the  other,  and 
waddled  out  to  the  veranda  door. 

And  at  that  instant  the  very  heavens  echoed  with  that 
awful  tumult  which  had  first  paralysed,  then  crazed  him  in 
the  woods. 

Bottles,  bread,  cheese  fell  from  his  grasp  and  hi?  knees 
nearly  collapsed  under  him.  In  the  bushes  on  the  lake 
shore  he  saw  animals  leaping  and  racing,  but,  in  his  terror, 
he  did  not  recognise  them  for  dogs. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  saw  a  man,  close  to  the  house,  run- 
ning: and  another  man  not  far  behind.  That  he  under- 
stood, and  it  electrified  him  into  action. 

It  was  too  late  to  escape  from  the  house  now.  He  under- 
stood that  instantly. 

He  ran  back  through  the  dance-hall  and  dining-room 
to  the  pantry ;  but  he  dared  not  let  these  intruders  hear  the 
noise  of  hammering. 

In  an  agony  of  indecision  he  stood  trembling,  listening 


THE  FOREST  AND  MR.  SARD  207 

to  the  infernal  racket  of  the  dogs,  and  waiting  for  the  first 
footstep  within  the  house. 

No  step  came.  But,  chancing  to  look  over  his  shoulder, 
he  saw  a  man  peering  through  the  pantry  window  at  him. 

Ungovernable  terror  seized  Sard.  Scarcely  aware  what 
he  was  about,  he  seized  the  edges  of  the  big  drain-pipe  and 
crowded  his  obese  body  into  it  head  first.  He  was  so  fat 
and  heavy  that  he  filled  the  tile.  To  start  himself  down 
he  pulled  with  both  hands  and  kicked  himself  forward,  tor- 
toise-like, down  the  slanting  tunnel,  sticking  now  and  then, 
dragging  himself  on  and  downward. 

Now  he  began  to  gain  momentum ;  he  felt  himself  sliding, 
not  fast  but  steadily. 

There  came  a  hitch  somewhere;  his  heavy  body  stuck 
on  the  steep  incline. 

Then,  as  he  lifted  his  bewildered  head  and  strove  to  peer 
into  the  blackness  in  front,  he  saw  four  balls  of  green  fire 
close  to  him  in  darkness. 

He  began  to  slide  at  the  same  instant,  and  flung  out  both 
hands  to  check  himself.  But  his  palms  slid  in  the  slime 
and  his  body  slid  after. 

He  shrieked  once  as  his  face  struck  a  furry  obstruction 
where  four  balls  of  green  fire  flamed  horribly  and  a  fury 
of  murderous  teeth  tore  his  face  and  throat  to  bloody  tat- 
ters as  he  slid  lower,  lower,  settling  through  crimson-dyed 
waters  into  the  icy  depths  of  Star  Pond. 

Stormont,  down  by  the  lake,  called  to  Darragh,  who  ap- 
peared on  the  veranda: 

"Oh,  Jim !    Both  otters  crawled  into  the  drain !    I  think 


208  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

your  dogs  must  have  killed  one  of  them  under  water. 
There's  a  big  patch  of  blood  spreading  off  shore." 

"Yes,"  said  Darragh,  "something  has  just  been  killed, 
gomewhere.  .  .  .  Jack!" 

"Yes?" 

*Tull  both  your  guns  and  come  up  here,  quick!" 


Episode  Ten 
THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE 


"\X /"HEN  Quintana  turned  like  an  enraged  snake  on  Sard 
and  drove  him  to  his  destruction,  he  would  have 
killed  and  robbed  the  frightened  diamond  broker  had  he 
dared  risk  the  shot.  He  had  intended  to  do  this  anyway, 
sooner  or  later.  But  with  the  noise  of  the  hunting  dogs 
filling  the  forest,  Quintana  was  afraid  to  fire.  Yet,  even 
then  he  followed  Sard  stealthily  for  a  few  minutes,  afraid 
yet  murderously  desirous  of  the  gems,  confused  by  the 
tumult  of  the  hounds,  timid  and  ferocious  at  the  same  time, 
and  loath  to  leave  his  fat,  perspiring,  and  demoralised 
victim. 

But  the  racket  of  the  dogs  proved  too  much  for  Quintana. 
He  sheered  away  toward  the  South,  leaving  Sard  flounder- 
ing on  ahead,  unconscious  of  the  treachery  that  had  fol- 
lowed furtively  in  his  panic-stricken  tracks. 

About  an  hour  later  Quintana  was  seen,  challenged, 
chased  and  shot  at  by  State  Trooper  Lannis. 

Quintana  ran.  And  what  with  the  dense  growth  of 
seedling  beech  and  oak  and  the  heavily  falling  birch  and 
poplar  leaves,  Lannis  first  lost  Quintana  and  then  his  trail. 

The  State  Trooper  had  left  his  horse  at  the  cross-roads 

near  the  scene  of  Darragh's  masked  exploit,  where  he  had 

stopped  and  robbed  Sard — and  now  Lannis  hastened  back 

209 


210  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

to  find  and  mount  his  horse,  and  gallop  straight  into  the  first 
growth  timber. 

Through  dim  aisles  of  giant  pine  he  spurred  to  a  dead 
run  on  the  chance  of  cutting  Quintana  from  the  eastward 
edge  of  the  forest  and  forcing  him  back  toward  the  north 
or  west,  where  patrols  were  more  than  likely  to  hold  him. 

The  State  Trooper  rode  with  all  the  reckless  indifference 
and  grace  of  the  Western  cavalryman,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
part  of  the  superb  animal  he  rode — part  of  its  bone  and 
muscle,  its  litheness,  its  supple  power — part  of  its  verte- 
bras and  ribs  and  limbs,  so  perfect  was  their  bodily  co-or- 
dination. 

Rifle  and  eyes  intently  alert,  the  rider  scarce  noticed  his 
rushing  mount;  and  if  he  guided  with  wrist  and  knee  it 
was  instinctive  and  as  though  the  horse  were  guiding  them 
both. 

And  now,  far  ahead  through  this  primeval  stand  of  pine, 
sunshine  glimmered,  warning  of  a  clearing.  And  here 
Trooper  Lannis  pulled  in  his  horse  at  the  edge  of  what 
seemed  to  be  a  broad,  flat  meadow,  vividly  green. 

But  it  was  the  intense,  arsenical  green  of  hair-fine  grass 
that  covers  with  its  false  velvet  those  quaking  bogs  where 
only  a  thin,  crust-like  skin  of  root-fibre  and  vegetation  cover 
infinite  depths  of  silt. 

The  silt  had  no  more  substance  than  a  drop  of  ink  col- 
ouring the  water  in  a  tumbler. 

Sitting  his  fast-breathing  mount,  Lannis  searched  this 
wide,  flat  expanse  of  brilliant  green.  Nothing  moved  on  it 
save  a  great  heron  picking  its  deliberate  way  on  stilt-like 
legs.    It  was  well  for  Quintana  that  he  had  not  attempted  it. 

Very  cautiously  Lannis  walked  his  horse  along  the  hard 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  211 

ground  which  edged  this  marsh  on  the  west.  Nowhere  was 
there  any  sign  that  Quintana  had  come  down  to  the  edge 
among  the  shrubs  and  swale  grasses. 

Beyond  the  marsh  another  trooper  patrolled;  and  when 
at  length  he  and  Lannis  perceived  each  other  and  ex- 
changed signals,  the  latter  wheeled  his  horse  and  retraced 
his  route  at  an  easy  canter,  satisfied  that  Quintana  had  not 
yet  broken  cover. 

Back  through  the  first  growth  he  cantered,  his  rifle  at  a 
ready,  carefully  scanning  the  more  open  woodlands,  and  so 
came  again  to  the  cross-roads. 

And  here  stood  a  State  Game  Inspector,  with  a  report 
that  some  sort  of  beagle-pack  was  hunting  in  the  forest  to 
the  northwest ;  and  very  curious  to  investigate. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  the  Inspector  should  turn  road- 
patrol  and  the  Trooper  become  the  rover. 

There  was  no  sound  of  dogs  when  Lannis  rode  in  on  the 
narrow,  spotted  trail  whence  he  had  flushed  Quintana  into 
the  dense  growth  of  saplings  that  bordered  it. 

His  horse  made  little  noise  on  the  moist  layer  of  leaves 
and  forest  mould ;  he  listened  hard  for  the  sound  of  hounds 
as  he  rode;  heard  nothing  save  the  chirr  of  red  squirrels, 
the  shriek  of  a  watching  jay,  or  the  startling  noise  of  falling 
acorns  rapping  and  knocking  on  great  limbs  in  their  descent 
to  the  forest  floor. 

Once,  very,  very  far  away  westward  in  the  direction  of 
Star  Pond  he  fancied  he  heard  a  faint  vibration  in  the  air 
that  might  have  been  hounds  baying. 

He  was  right.  And  at  that  very  moment  Sard  was  dy- 
ing, horribly,  among  two  trapped  otters  as  big  and  fierce  as 
the  dogs  that  had  driven  them  into  the  drain. 


212  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

But  Lannis  knew  nothing  of  that  as  he  moved  on, 
mounted,  along  the  spotted  trail,  now  all  a  yellow  glory  of 
birch  and  poplar  which  made  the  woodland  brilliant  as 
though  lighted  by  yellow  lanterns. 

Somewhere  among  the  birches,  between  him  and  Star 
Pond,  was  Harrod  Place.  And  the  idea  occurred  to  him 
that  Ouintana  might  have  ventured  to  ask  food  and  shelter 
there.  Yet,  that  was  not  likely  because  Trooper  Stormont 
had  called  him  that  morning  on  the  telephone  from  the 
Hatchery  Lodge. 

No;  the  only  logical  retreat  for  Quintana  was  northward 
to  the  mountains,  where  patrols  were  plenty  and  fire-war- 
dens on  duty  in  every  watch-tower.  Or,  the  fugitive  could 
make  for  Drowned  Valley  by  a  blind  trail  which,  Stor- 
mont informed  him,  existed  but  which  Lannis  never  had 
heard  of. 

However,  to  reassure  himself,  Lannis  rode  as  far  as 
Harrod  Place,  and  found  game  wardens  on  duty  along  the 
line. 

Then  he  turned  west  and  trotted  his  mount  down  to  the 
hatchery,  where  he  saw  Ralph  Wier,  the  Superintendent, 
standing  outside  the  lodge  talking  to  his  assistant,  George 
Fry. 

When  Lannis  rode  up  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  brook, 
he  called  across  to  Wier : 

"You  haven't  seen  anything  of  any  crooked  outfit  around 
here,  have  you,  Ralph?    Pm  looking  for  that  kind." 

"See  here,"  said  the  Superintendent,  'T  don't  know  but 
George  Fry  may  have  seen  one  of  your  guys.  Come  over 
and  he'll  tell  you  what  happened  an  hour  ago." 

Trooper  Lannis  pivotted  his  horse  and  put  him  to  the 
brook  with  scarcely  any  take-off;  and  the  splendid  animal 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  213 

cleared  the  water  like  a  deer  and  came  cantering  up  to  the 
door  of  the  lodge. 

Fry's  boyish  face  seemed  agitated;  he  looked  up  at  the 
State  Trooper  with  the  flush  of  tears  in  his  gaze  and  pointed 
at  the  rifle  Lannis  carried : 

"If  I'd  had  tliatr  he  said  excitedly,  "I'd  have  brought  in 
a  crook,  you  bet !" 

"Where  did  you  see  him?"  inquired  Lannis. 

"Jest  west  of  the  Scaur,  about  an  hour  and  a  half  ago. 
Wier  and  me  was  stockin'  the  head  of  Scaur  Brook  with 
fingerlings.  There's  more  good  water — two  miles  of  it — to 
the  east,  and  all  it  needed  was  a  fish-ladder  around  Scaur 
Falls. 

"So  I  toted  in  cement  and  sand  and  grub  last  week,  and 
I  built  me  a  shanty  on  the  Scaur,  and  I  been  laying  up  a 

fish-way  around  the  falls.     So  that's  how  I  come  there " 

He  clicked  his  teeth  and  darted  a  furious  glance  at  the 
woods.  "By  God,"  he  said,  "I  was  such  a  fool  I  didn't 
take  no  rifle.  All  I  had  was  an  axe  and  a  few  traps.  .  .  . 
I  wasn't  going  to  let  the  mink  get  our  trout  whatever  you 
fellows  say,"  he  added  defiantly,  " — and  law  or  no  law " 

"Get  along  with  your  story,  young  man,"  interrupted 
Lannis ;  " — you  can  spill  the  rest  out  to  the  Commissioner." 

"All  right,  then.  This  is  the  way  it  happened  down  to 
the  Scaur.  I  was  eating  lunch  by  the  fish-stairs,  looking  up 
at  'em  and  kind  of  planning  how  to  save  cement,  and  not 
thinking  about  anybody  being  near  me,  when  something 
made  me  turn  my  head.  .  .  .  You  know  how  it  is  in  the 
woods.  ...  I  kinda  felt  somebody  near.  And,  by  cracky ! 
— there  stood  a  man  with  a  big,  black  automatic  pistol,  and 
he  had  a  bead  on  my  belly. 


214  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"  'Well,'  said  I,  'what's  troubling  you  and  your  gun,  my 
friend?' — I  was  that  astonished. 

"He  was  a  slim-built,  powerful  guy  with  a  foreign  face 
and  voice  and  way.  He  wanted  to  know  if  he  had  the 
honour — as  he  put  it — to  introduce  himself  to  a  detective 
or  game  constable,  or  a  friend  of  Mike  Clinch. 

*'I  told  him  I  wasn't  any  of  these,  and  that  I  worked  in 
a  private  hatchery;  and  he  called  me  a  liar." 

Young  Fry's  face  flushed  and  his  voice  began  to  quiver : 

"That's  the  way  he  misused  me :  and  he  backed  me  into 
the  shanty  and  I  had  to  sit  down  with  both  hands  up.  Then 
he  filled  my  pack-basket  with  grub,  and  took  my  axe,  and 
strapped  my  kit  onto  his  back.  .  .  .  And  talking  all  the 
time  in  his  mean,  sneery,  foreign  way — and  I  guess  he 
thought  he  was  funny,  for  he  laughed  at  his  own  jokes. 

"He  told  me  his  name  was  Ouintana,  and  that  he  ought 
to  shoot  me  for  a  rat,  but  wouldn't  because  of  the  stink. 
Then  he  said  he  was  going  to  do  a  quick  job  that  the  police 
were  too  cowardly  to  do; — that  he  was  a-going  to  find 
Mike  Clinch  down  to  Drowned  Valley  and  kill  him;  and 
if  he  could  catch  Mike's  daughter,  too,  he'd  spoil  her  face 
for  life " 

The  boy  was  breathing  so  hard  and  his  rage  made  him 
so  incoherent  that  Lannis  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and 
shook  him  : 

"What  next  ?"  demanded  the  Trooper  impatiently.  "Tell 
your  story  and  quit  thinking  how  you  were  misused!" 

"He  told  me  to  stay  in  the  shanty  for  an  hour  or  he'd 
do  for  me  good,"  cried  Fry.  .  .  .  "Once  I  got  up  and  went 
to  the  door;  and  there  he  stood  by  the  brook,  wolfing  my 
lunch  with  both  hands.    I  tell  you  he  cursed  and  drove  me, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  215 

like  a  dog,  inside  with  his  big  pistol — my  God — like  a 
dog.  .   .  . 

"Then,  the  next  time  I  took  a  chance  he  was  gone.  .  .  . 

And  I  beat  it  here  to  get  me  a  rifle "     The  boy  broke 

down  and  sobbed:  "He  drove  me  around — like  a  dog — 
he  did " 

"You  leave  that  to  me,"  interrupted  Lannis  sharply. 
And,  to  Wier :  "You  and  George  had  better  get  a  gun 
apiece.  That  fellow  might  come  back  here  or  go  to  Har- 
rod  Place  if  we  starve  him  out." 

Wier  said  to  Fry:  "Go  up  to  Harrod  Place  and  tell 
Jansen  your  story  and  bring  back  two  45-70's.  .  .  .  And 
quit  snivelling.  .  .  .  You  may  get  a  shot  at  him  yet." 

Lannis  had  already  ridden  down  to  the  brook.  Now  he 
jumped  his  horse  across,  pulled  up,  called  back  to  Wier: 

"I  think  our  man  is  making  for  Drowned  Valley,  all 
right.  My  mate,  Stormont,  telephoned  me  that  some  of  his 
gang  are  there,  and  that  Mike  Clinch  and  his  gang  have 
them  stopped  on  the  other  side !  Keep  your  eye  on  Harrod 
Place!" 

And  away  he  cantered  into  the  North. 

Behind  the  curtains  of  her  open  window  Eve  Strayer, 
lying  on  her  bed,  had  heard  every  word. 

Crouched  there  beside  her  pillow  she  peered  out  and  saw 
Trooper  Lannis  ride  away;  saw  the  Fry  boy  start  toward 
Harrod  Place  on  a  run;  saw  Ralph  Wier  watch  them  out 
of  sight  and  then  turn  and  re-enter  the  lodge. 

Wrapped  in  Darragh's  big  blanket  robe  she  got  off 
the  bed  and  opened  her  chamber  door  as  Wier  was  passing 
through  the  living-room. 


216  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Please — I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  a  moment,"  she  called. 

Wier  turned  instantly  and  came  to  the  partly  open  door. 

"I  want  to  know,"  she  said,  "where  I  am." 

"Ma'am?" 

"What  is  this  place?" 

"It's  a  hatchery " 

"Whose?" 

"Ma'am?" 

"Whose  lodge  is  this  ?    Does  it  belong  to  Harrod  Place  ?" 

"We're  h-hootch  runners,  Miss "  stammered  Wier, 

mindful  of  instructions,  but  making  a  poor  business  of  de- 
ception; " — I  and  Hal  Smith,  we  run  a  'Easy  One,'  and 
we  strip  trout  for  a  blind  and  sell  to  Harrod  Place — Hal 
and  I " 

"Who  is  Hal  Smith?"  she  asked.     • 

"Ma'am?" 

The  girl's  flower-blue  eyes  turned  icy:  "Who  is  the 
man  who  calls  himself  Hal  Smith?"  she  repeated. 

Wier  looked  at  her,  red  and  dumb. 

"Is  he  a  Trooper  in  plain  clothes?"  she  demanded  in  a 
bitter  voice.  "Is  he  one  of  the  Commissioner's  spies  ?  Are 
you  one,  too  ?" 

Wier  gazed  miserably  at  her,  unable  to  formulate  a  con- 
vincing lie. 

She  flushed  swiftly  as  a  terrible  suspicion  seized  her: 

"Is  this  Harrod  property?  Is  Hal  Smith  old  Harrod'S' 
heir?    Is  he?" 

"My  God,  Miss " 

"He  isr 

"Listen,  Miss " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  217 

She  flung  open  the  door  and  came  out  into  the  living- 
room. 

"Hal  Smith  is  that  nephew  of  old  Harrod,"  she  said 
calmly.  "His  name  is  Darragh.  And  you  are  one  of  his 
wardens.  .  .  .  And  I  can't  stay  here.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

Wier  wiped  his  hot  face  and  waited.  The  cat  was  out; 
there  was  a  hole  in  the  bag;  and  he  knew  there  was  no  use 
in  such  lies  as  he  could  tell. 

He  said :  "All  I  know,  Miss,  is  that  I  was  to  look  after 
you  arid  get  you  whatever  you  want " 

"I  want  my  clothes !" 

"Ma'am?" 

"My  clothes!"  she  repeated  impatiently.  "I've  got  to 
have  them !" 

"Where  are  they,  ma'am?"  asked  the  bewildered  man. 

At  the  same  moment  the  girl's  eyes  fell  on  a  pile  of  men's 
sporting  clothing — garments  sent  down  from  Harrod  Place 
to  the  Lodge — lying  on  a  leather  lounge  near  a  gun-rack. 

Without  a  glance  at  Wier,  Eve  went  to  the  heap  of  cloth- 
ing, tossed  it  about,  selected  cords,  two  pairs  of  woollen 
socks,  grey  shirt,  puttees,  shoes,  flung  the  garments  through 
the  door  into  her  own  room,  followed  them,  and  locked 
herself  in. 

When  she  was  dressed — the  two  heavy  pairs  of  socks 
helping  to  fit  her  feet  to  the  shoes — she  emptied  her  hand- 
ful of  diamonds,  sapphires  and  emeralds,  including  the 
Flaming  Jewel,  into  the  pockets  of  her  breeches. 

Now  she  was  ready.  She  unlocked  her  door  and  went 
out,  scarcely  limping  at  all,  now. 


218  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Wier  gazed  at  her  helplessly  as  she  coolly  chose  a  rifle 
and  cartridge-belt  at  the  gun-rack. 

Then  she  turned  on  him  as  still  and  dangerous  as  a  young 
puma: 

"Tell  Darragh  he'd  better  keep  clear  of  Clinch's,"  she 
said.  "Tell  him  I  always  thought  he  was  a  rat.  Now  I 
know  he's  one." 

She  plunged  one  slim  hand  into  her  pocket  and  drew  out 
a  diamond. 

"Here,"  she  said  insolently.  "This  will  pay  your  gentle^ 
man  for  his  gun  and  clothing." 

She  tossed  the  gem  onto  a  table,  where  it  rolled,  glit- 
tering. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Miss "  burst  out  Wier,  horrified, 

but  she  cut  him  short : 

" — He  may  keep  the  change,"  she  said.  "We're  no 
swindlers  at  Clinch's  Dump!" 

Wier  started  forward  as  though  to  intercept  her.  Eve's 
eyes  flamed.  And  he  stood  still.  She  wrenched  open  the 
door  and  walked  out  among  the  silver  birches. 

At  the  edge  of  the  brook  she  stood  a  moment,  coolly 
loading  the  magazine  of  her  rifle.  Then,  with  one  swift 
glance  of  hatred,  flung  at  the  place  that  Harrod's  money 
had  built,  she  sprang  across  the  brook,  tossed  her  rifle  to 
her  shoulder,  and  passed  lithely  into  the  golden  wilderness 
of  poplar  and  silver  birch. 

II 

Quintana,  on  a  fox-trot  along  the  rock-trail  into  Drowned 
Valley,  now  thoroughly  understood  that  it  was  the  only 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  219 

sanctuary  left  him  for  the  moment.  Egress  to  the  south- 
ward was  closed;  to  the  eastward,  also;  and  he  was  too 
wary  to  venture  westward  toward  Ghost  Lake. 

No,  the  only  temporary  safety  lay  in  the  swamps  of 
Drowned  Valley. 

And  there,  he  decided  as  he  jogged  along,  if  worse  came 
to  worst  and  starvation  drove  him  out,  he'd  settle  matters 
with  Mike  Clinch  and  break  through  to  the  north. 

He  meant  to  settle  matters  with  Mike  Clinch  anyway. 
He  was  not  afraid  of  Clinch ;  not  really  afraid  of  anybody. 
It  had  been  the  dogs  that  demoralised  Quintana.  He'd  had 
no  experience  with  hunting  hounds, — did  not  know  what 
to  expect, — how  to  manoeuvre.  If  only  he  could  have  seen 
these  beasts  that  filled  the  forest  with  their  hob-goblin  out- 
cries— if  he  could  have  had  a  good  look  at  the  creatures 
who  gave  forth  that  weird,  crazed,  melancholy  volume  of 
sound ! 

"Bon !"  he  said  coolly  to  himself.  "It  was  a  crisis  of 
nerves  which  I  experience.     Yes.  ...  I  should  have  shot 

him,  that  fat  Sard.     Yes.  .  .  .  Only  those  damn  dog 

And  now  he  shall  die  an'  rot — that  fat  Sard — all  by  him- 
se'f,  parbleu ! — like  one  big  dead  thing  all  alone  in  the  wood. 
.  .  .  A  puddle  of  guts  full  of  diamonds!  Ah! — mon  dieu! 
— a  million  francs  in  gems  that  shine  like  festering  stars 
in  this  damn  wood  till  the  world  end.  Ah,  bah — nome  de 
dieu  de " 

"Halte  la !"  came  a  sharp  voice  from  the  cedar  fringe  in 
front.  A  pause,  then  recognition;  and  Henri  Picquet 
walked  out  on  the  hard  ridge  beyond  and  stood  leaning  on 
his  rifle  and  looking  sullenly  at  his  leader. 

Quintana  came  forward,   carelessly,  a  disagreeable  ex- 


S20  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

pression  in  his  eyes  and  on  his  narrow  Hps,  and  continued 
on  past  Picquet. 

The  latter  slouched  after  his  leader,  who  had  walked 
over  to  the  lean-to  before  which  a  pile  of  charred  logs  lay 
in  cold  ashes. 

As  Picquet  came  up,  Quintana  turned  on  him,  with  a 
gesture  toward  the  extinguished  fire :  "It  is  cold  like  hell," 
he  said.    "Why  do  you  not  have  some  fire  ?" 

"Not  for  me,  non,"  growled  Picquet,  and  jerked  a  dirty 
thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  lean-to. 

And  there  Quintana  saw  a  pair  of  muddy  boots  pro- 
truding from  a  blanket. 

"It  is  Harry  Beck,  yes?"  he  inquired.  Then  something 
about  the  boots  and  the  blanket  silenced  him.  He  kept  his 
eyes  on  them  for  a  full  minute,  then  walked  into  the  lean- 
to.  The  blanket  also  covered  Harry  Beck's  features  and 
there  was  a  stain  on  it  where  it  outlined  the  prostrate  man's 
features,  making  a  ridge  over  the  bony  nose. 

After  a  moment  Quintana  looked  around  at  Picquet: 

"So.     He  is  dead.     Yes?" 

Picquet  shrugged:     "Since  noon,  mon  capitaine." 

"Comment?" 

"How  shall  I  know?  It  was  the  fire,  perhaps, — green 
wood  or  wet — it  is  no  matter  now.  ...  I  said  to  him, 
'Pay  attention,  Henri ;  your  wood  makes  too  much  smoke.' 
To  me  he  reply  I  shall  go  to  hell.  .  .  .  Well,  there  was  too 
much  smoke  for  me.    I  arise  to  search  for  wood  more  dry, 

when,   crack ! — they  begin  to  shoot  out  there "     He 

waved  a  dirty  hand  toward  the  forest. 

"  *Bon,'  said  I,  'Clinch,  he  have  seen  your  damn  smoke !' 

"  'What  shall  I  care?'  he  make  reply,  Henri  Beck,  to  me. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  2ai 

'Clinch  he  shall  shoot  and  be  damn  to  him.  I  cook  me  my 
dejeuner  all  the  same.' 

"I  make  representations  to  that  Johnbull;  he  say  to  me 
that  I  am  a  frog,  and  other  injuries,  while  he  lay  yet  more 
wood  on  his  sacre  fire. 

"Then  crack !  crack !  crack !  and  zing-gg ! — whee-ee !  come 
the  big  bullets  of  Clinch  and  his  voyous  yonder. 

"  *Bon,'  I  say,  'me,  I  make  my  excuse  to  retire.' 

"Then  Henri  Beck  he  laugh  and  say,  'Hop  it,  frog!' 
And  that  is  all  he  has  find  time  to  say,  when  crack!  spat! 
Bien  droit  he  has  it — tenez,  mon  capitaine — here,  over  the 
left  eye!  .  .  .  Like  a  beef  surprise  he  go  over,  crash! 
thump !  And  like  a  beef  that  dies,  the  air  bellows  out  from 
his  big  lungs " 

Picquet  looked  down  at  the  dead  comrade  in  a  sort  of 
weary  compassion  for  such  stupidity. 

" — So  he  pass,  this  ros-biff  goddam  Johnbull.  .  .  .  Me, 
I  roll  him  in  there,  .  .  .  Je  ne  sais  pas  pourquoi.  .  .  .  Then 
I  put  out  the  fire  and  leave." 

Quintana  let  his  sneering  glance  rest  on  the  dead  a  mo- 
ment, and  his  thin  lip  curled  immemorial  contempt  for  the 
Anglo-Saxon. 

Then  he  divested  himself  of  the  basket-pack  which  he 
had  stolen  from  the  Fry  boy. 

"Alors,"  he  said  calmly,  "it  has  been  Mike  Clinch  who 
shoot  my  frien'  Beck.    Bien." 

He  threw  a  cartridge  into  the  breech  of  his  rifle,  adjusted 
his  ammunition  belt  en  handoiiliere,  carelessly. 

Then,  in  a  quiet  voice :  "My  frien'  Picquet,  the  time  has 
now  arrive  when  it  become  ver'  necessary  that  we  go  from 


S22  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

here  away.  Done — I  shall  now  go  kill  me  my  f  rien'  Mike 
Clinch." 

Picquet,  unastonished,  gave  him  a  heavy,  bovine  look  of 
inquiry. 

Quintana  said  softly:  "Me,  I  have  enough  already  of 
this  damn  woods.  Why  shall  we  starve  here  when  there 
lies  our  path?"  He  pointed  north;  his  arm  remained  out- 
stretched for  a  while. 

"Qinch,  he  is  there,"  growled  Picquet. 

"Also  our  path,  I'ami  Henri.  .  .  .  And,  behind  us,  they 
hunt  us  now  with  dogs." 

Picquet  bared  his  big  white  teeth  in  fierce  surprise. 
"Dogs?"  he  repeated  with  a  sort  of  snarl. 

"That  is  how  they  now  hunt  us,  my  frien' — ^like  they 
hunt  the  hare  in  the  Cote  d'Or.  .  .  .  Me,  I  shall  now  recon- 
noitre— that  way!"  And  he  looked  where  he  was  pointing, 
into  the  north — with  smouldering  eyes.  Then  he  turned 
calmly  to  Picquet:    "An'  you,  I'ami?" 

"At  orders,  mon  capitaine." 

"Cest  bien.    Venez." 

They  walked  leisurely  forward  with  rifles  shouldered, 
following  the  hard  ridge  out  across  a  vast  and  flooded  land 
where  the  bark  of  trees  glimmered  with  wet  mosses. 

After  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  ridge  broadened  and  split 
into  two,  one  hog-back  branching  northeast!  They,  how- 
ever, continued  north. 

About  twenty  minutes  later  Picquet,  creeping  along  on 
Quintana's  left,  and  some  sixty  yards  distant,  discovered 
something  moving  in  the  woods  beyond,  and  fired  at  it. 
Instantly  two  unseen  rifles  spoke  from  the  woods  ahead. 
Picquet  was  jerked  clear  around,  lost  his  balance  and  nearly 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  223 

fell.  Blood  was  spurting  from  his  right  arm,  between  el- 
bow and  shoulder. 

He  tried  to  lift  and  level  his  rifle;  his  arm  collapsed  and 
dangled  broken  and  powerless;  his  rifle  clattered  to  the 
forest  floor. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  there  in  plain  view,  dumb,  deathly 
white;  then  he  began  screaming  with  fury  while  the  big, 
soft-nosed  bullets  came  streaming  in  all  around  him.  His 
broken  arm  was  hit  again.  His  screaming  ceased;  he 
dragged  out  his  big  clasp-knife  with  his  left  hand  and 
started  running  toward  the  shooting. 

As  he  ran,  his  mangled  arm  flopping  like  a  broken  wing, 
Byron  Hastings  stepped  out  from  behind  a  tree  and  coolly 
shot  him  down  at  close  quarters. 

Then  Quintana's  rifle  exploded  twice  very  quickly,  and 
the  Hastings  boy  stumbled  sideways  and  fell  sprawling. 
He  managed  to  rise  to  his  knees  again ;  he  even  was  trying 
to  stand  up  when  Quintana,  taking  his  time,  deliberately 
began  to  empty  his  magazine  into  the  boy,  riddling  him 
limb  and  body  and  head. 

Down  once  more,  he  still  moved  his  arms.  Sid  Hone 
reached  out  from  behind  a  fallen  log  to  grasp  the  dying  lad's 
ankle  and  draw  him  into  shelter,  but  Quintana  reloaded 
swiftly  and  smashed  Hone's  left  hand  with  the  first  shot. 

Then  Jim  Hastings,  kneeling  behind  a  bunch  of  juniper, 
fired  a  high-velocity  bullet  into  the  tree  behind  which  Quin- 
tana stood;  but  before  he  could  fire  again  Quintana's  shot 
in  reply  came  ripping  through  the  juniper  and  tore  a  ghastly 
hole  in  the  calf  of  his  left  leg,  striking  a  blow  that  knocked 
young  Hastings  flat  and  paralysed  as  a  dead  flounder. 

A  mile   to   the   north,    blocking   the   other   exit    from 


224  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Drowned  Valley,  Mike  Clinch,  Harvey  Chase,  Cornelius 
Blommers,  and  Dick  Berry  stood  listening  to  the  shooting, 

"B'gosh,"  blurted  out  Chase,  "it  sounds  like  they  was 
goin""  through^  Mike.    B'gosh,  it  does !" 

Clinch's  little  pale  eyes  blazed,  but  he  said  in  his  soft, 
agreeable  voice : 

"Stay  right  here,  boys.  Like  as  not  some  of  'em  will  come 
this  way." 

The  shooting  below  ceased.  Clinch's  nostrils  expanded 
and  flattened  with  every  breath,  as  he  stood  glaring  into  the 
woods. 

"Harve,"  he  said  presently,  "you  an'  Corny  go  down 
there  an'  kinda  look  around.  And  you  signal  if  I'm  wanted. 
G'wan,  both  o'  you.     Git!" 

They  started,  running  heavily,  but  their  feet  made  little 
noise  on  the  moss. 

Berry  came  over  and  stood  near  Clinch.  For  ten  min- 
utes neither  man  moved.  Clinch  stared  at  the  woods  in 
front  of  him.  The  younger  man's  nervous  glance  flickered 
Hke  a  snake's  tongue  in  every  direction,  and  he  kept  moisten- 
ing his  lips  with  his  tongue. 

Presently  two  shots  came  from  the  south.  A  pause;  a 
rattle  of  shots  from  hastily  emptied  magazines. 

"G'wan  down  there,  Dick!"  said  Clinch. 

"You'll  be  alone,  Mike " 

"Au'  right.    You  do  like  I  say;  git  along  quick!" 

Berry  walked  southward  a  little  way.  He  had  turned 
very  white  under  his  tan. 

"Gol  ding  ye !"  shouted  Clinch,  "take  it  on  a  lope  or  I'll 
kick  the  pants  off'n  ye!" 

Berry  began  to  run,  carrying  his  rifle  at  a  trail. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  225 

For  half  an  hour  there  was  not  a  sound  in  the  forests 
of  Drowned  Valley  except  in  the  dead  timber  where  unseen  . 
woodpeckers  hammered  fitfully  at  the  ghosts  of  ancient 
trees. 

Always  Clinch's  little  pale  eyes  searched  the  forest  twi- 
light in  front  of  him ;  not  a  falling  leaf  escaped  him ;  not  a 
chipmunk. 

And  all  the  while  Clinch  talked  to  himself;  his  lips 
moved  a  little  now  and  then,  but  uttered  no  sound: 

"All  I  want  God  should  do,"  he  repeated  again  and 
again,  "is  to  just  let  Ouintana  come  my  way.  'Tain't  for 
because  he  robbed  my  girlie.  'Tain't  for  the  stuff  he  car- 
ries onto  him.  .  .  .  No,  God,  'tain't  them  things.  But  it's 
what  that  there  skunk  done  to  my  Evie.  .  .  .  O  God,  be 
you  listenin'  ?  He  hurt  her,  Quintana  did.  That's  it.  He 
misused  her.  .  .  .  God,  if  you  had  seen  my  girlie's  little 

bleeding   feet! That's^  the   reason.  .  .  .  'Tain't   the 

stuff.  I  can  work.  I  can  save  for  to  make  my  Evie  a  lady 
same's  them  high-steppers  on  Fifth  Avenoo.     I  can  moil  and 

toil  and  slave  an'  run  hootch — hootch They  wuz  wine 

'n'  fixin's  into  the  Bible.  It  ain't  you,  God,  it's  them 
fanatics.  .  .  .  Nobody  in  my  Dump  wanted  I  should  sell 
'em  more'n  a  bottle  o'  beer  before  this  here  prohybishun  set 
us  all  crazy.  'Tain't  right.  .  .  .  O  God,  don't  hold  a  little 
hootch  agin  me  when  all  I  want  of  you  is  to  let  Quin- 
tana  " 

The  slightest  noise  behind  him.  He  waited,  turned 
slowly.     Eve  stood  there. 

Hell  died  in  his  pale  eyes  as  she  came  to  him,  rested  si- 
lently in  his  gentle  embrace,  returned  his  kiss,  laid  her 
flushed,  sweet  cheek  against  his  unshaven  face. 


g26  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"Dad,  darling?" 
"Yes,  my  baby- 


" You' re  watching  to  kill  Quintana.  But  there's  no  use 
watching  any  longer." 

"Have  the  boys  below  got  him?"  he  demanded. 

"They  got  one  of  his  gang.  Byron  Hastings  is  dead. 
Jim  is  badly  hurt;  Sid  Hone,  too, — not  so  badly " 

"Where's  Quintana?" 

"Dad,     he's     gone.  .  .  .  But     it     don't     matter.      See 

here! "     She  dug  her  slender  hand  into  her  breeches 

pocket  and  pulled  out  a  little  fistful  of  gems. 

Clinch,  his  powerful  arm  closing  her  shoulders,  looked 
dully  at  the  jewels. 

"You  see,  dad,  there's  no  use  killing  Quintana.  These 
are  the  things  he  robbed  you  of." 

"  'Tain't  them  that  matter.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  you  got  'em. 
I  alius  wanted  you  should  be  a  great  lady,  girlie.  Them's 
the  tickets  of  admission.  You  put  'em  in  your  pants.  I 
gotta  stay  here  a  spell " 

"Dad!    Take  them!" 

He  took  them,  smiled,  shoved  them  into  his  pocket. 

"What  is  it,  girlie?"  he  asked  absently,  his  pale  eyes 
searching  the  woods  ahead. 

"I've  just  told  you,"  she  said,  "that  the  boys  went  in  as 
far  as  Quintana's  shanty.  There  was  a  dead  man  there, 
too;  but  Quintana  has  gone." 

Clinch  said, — not  removing  his  eyes  from  the  forest: 
"If  any  o'  them  boys  has  let  Quintana  crawl  through  I'll 
kill  him,  too.  .  .  .  G'wan  home,  girlie.  I  gotta  mosey — 
I  gotta  kinda  loaf  around  f'r  a  spell " 

"Dad,  I  want  you  to  come  back  with  me " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  227 

"You  go  home ;  you  hear  me,  Eve  ?  Tell  Corny  and  Dick 
Berry  to  hook  it  for  Owl  Marsh  and  stop  the  Star  Peak 
trails — both  on  'em.  .  .  .  Can  Sid  and  Jimmy  walk?" 

"Jim  can't " 

"Well,  let  Harve  take  him  on  his  back.  You  go  too. 
You  help  fix  Jimmy  up  at  the  house.  He's  a  little  fella, 
Jimmy  Hastings  is.  Harve  can  tote  him.  And  you  go 
along " 

"Dad,  Quintana  says  he  means  to  kill  you !  What  is  the 
use  of  hurting  him?     You  have  what  he  took " 

"I  gotta  have  more'n  he  took.  But  even  that  ain't  enough. 
He  couldn't  pay  for  all  he  ever  done  to  me,  girlie.  .  .  .  I'm 
aimin'  to  draw  on  him  on  sight " 

Clinch's  set  visage  relaxed  into  an  alarming  smile  which 
flickered,  faded,  died  in  the  wintry  ferocity  of  his  eyes. 

"Dad " 

"G'wan  home!"  he  interrupted  harshly.  "You  want  that 
Hastings  boy  to  bleed  to  death?" 

She  came  up  to  him,  not  uttering  a  word,  yet  asking  him 
with  all  the  tenderness  and  eloquence  of  her  eyes  to  leave 
this  blood-trail  where  it  lay  and  hunt  no  more. 

He  kissed  her  mouth,  infinitely  tender,  smiled ;  then,  again 
prim  and  scowling : 

"G'wan  home,  you  little  scut,  an'  do  what  I  told  ye,  or, 
by  God,  I'll  cut  a  switch  that'll  learn  ye  good!  Never  a 
word,  now!     On  yer  way!     G'wan!" 

Twice  she  turned  to  look  back.  The  second  time,  Clinch 
was  slowly  walking  into  the  woods  straight  ahead  of  him. 
She  waited ;  saw  him  go  in;  waited.  After  a  while  she  con- 
tinued on  her  way. 


228  THE  FLAINONG  JEWEL 

When  she  sighted  the  men  below  she  called  to  Blommers 
and  Dick  Berry : 

"Dad  says  you're  to  stop  Star  Peak  trail  by  Owl  Marsh." 

Jimmy  Hastings  sat  on  a  log,  crying  and  looking  down 
at  his  dead  brother,  over  whose  head  somebody  had  spread 
a  coat. 

Blommers  had  made  a  tourniquet  for  Jimmy  out  of  a 
bandanna  and  a  peeled  stick. 

The  girl  examined  it,  loosened  it  for  a  moment,  twisted 
it  again,  and  bade  Harvey  Chase  take  him  on  his  back  and 
start  for  Clinch's. 

The  boy  began  to  sob  that  he  didn't  want  his  brother  to 
be  left  out  there  all  alone ;  but  Chase  promised  to  come  back 
and  bring  him  in  before  night. 

Sid  Hone  came  up,  haggard  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood, 
resting  his  mangled  hand  in  the  sling  of  his  cartridge-belt. 

Berry  and  Blommers  were  already  starting  across  toward 
Owl  Marsh;  and  the  latter,  passing  by,  asked  Eve  where 
Mike  was. 

"He  went  into  Drowned  Valley  by  the  upper  outlet," 
she*  said. 

"He'll  never  find  no  one  in  them  logans  an'  sinks," 
muttered  Chase,  squatting  to  hoist  Jimmy  Hastings  to  his 
broad  back. 

"1  guess  he'll  be  over  Star  Peak  side  by  sundown," 
nodded  Blommers. 

Eve  watched  him  slouching  off  into  the  woods,  followed 
sullenly  by  Berry.  Then  she  looked  down  at  the  dead  man 
in  silence. 

"Be  you  ready,  Eve?"  grunted  Chase. 

She  turned  with  a  heavy  heart  to  the  home  trail ;  but  her 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  229 

mind  was  passionately  with  Clinch  in  the  spectral  forests  of 
Drowned  Valley. 

Ill 

And  Clinch's  mind  was  on  her.  All  else — his  watchful- 
ness, his  stealthy  advance — all  the  alertness  of  eye  and  ear, 
all  the  subtlety,  the  cunning,  the  infinite  caution — were 
purely  instinctive  mechanics. 

Somewhere  in  this  flooded  twilight  of  gigantic  trees  was 
Jose  Quintana.  Knowing  that,  he  dismissed  that  fact  from 
his  mind  and  turned  his  thoughts  to  Eve. 

Sometimes  his  lips  moved.  They  usually  did  when  he 
was  arguing  with  God  or  calling  his  Creator's  attention  to 
the  justice  of  his  case.  His  two  cases — each,  to  him,  a 
cause  celebre;  the  matter  of  Harrod;  the  affair  of  Quin- 
tana. 

Many  a  time  he  had  pleaded  these  two  causes  before  the 
Most  High. 

But  now  his  thoughts  were  chiefly  concerned  with  Eve — 
with  the  problem  of  her  future — his  master  passion — ^this 
daughter  of  the  dead  wife  he  had  loved. 

He  sighed  unconsciously;  halted. 

"Well,  Lord,"  he  concluded,  in  his  wordless  way,  "my 
girlie  has  gotta  have  a  chance  if  I  gotta  go  to  hell  for  it. 
That's  sure  as  shootin'.  .  .  .  Amen." 

At  that  instant  he  saw  Quintana. 

Recognition  was  instant  and  mutual.  Neither  man 
stirred.  Quintana  was  standing  beside  a  giant  hemlock. 
His  pack  lay  at  his  feet. 

Clinch  had  halted — ^always  the  mechanics! — dose  to  a 
great  ironwood  tree. 


230  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Probably  both  men  knew  that  they  could  cover  themselves 
before  the  other  moved  a  muscle.  Clinch's  small,  light  eyes 
were  blazing;  Quintana's  black  eyes  had  become  two  slits. 

Finally:  "You — dirty — skunk,"  drawled  Clinch  in  his 
agreeably  misleading  voice,  "by  Jesus  Christ  I  got  you  now." 

"Ah — h,"  said  Quintana,  "thees  has  happen  ver'  nice  like 
I  expec'.  .  .  .  Always  I  say  myse'f,  yet  a  little  patience, 
Jose,  an'  one  day  you  shall  meet  thees  fellow  Clinch,  who 
has  rob  you.  ...  I  am  ver'  thankful  to  the  good  God " 

He  had  made  the  slightest  of  movements :  instantly  both 
men  were  behind  their  trees.  Clinch,  in  the  ferocious  pride 
of  woodcraft,  laughed  exultingly — filled  the  dim  and  spec- 
tral forest  with  his  roar  of  laughter. 

"Quintana,"  he  called  out,  "you're  a-going  to  cash  in. 
Savvy?  You're  a-going  to  hop  off.  An'  first  you  gotta 
hear  why.  'Tain't  for  the  stuff.  Naw !  I  hooked  it  off'n 
you;  you  hooked  it  off'n  me;  now  I  got  it  again.  Thafs 
all  square.  .  .  .  No,  'tain't  that  grudge,  you  green-livered 
whelp  of  a  cross-bred,  still-born  slut !  No !  It's  becuz  you 
laid  the  heft  o'  your  dirty  little  finger  onto  my  girlie.  'N' 
now  you  gotta  hop!" 

Quintana's  sinister  laughter  was  his  retort.  Then :  "You 
damfool  Clinch,"  he  said,  "I  got  in  my  pocket  what  you  rob 
of  me.  Now  I  kill  you,  and  then  I  feel  ver'  well.  I  go 
home,  live  like  some  kings;  yes.  But  you,"  he  sneered, 
"you  shall  not  go  home  never  no  more.  No.  You  shall 
remain  in  thees  damn  wood  like  ver'  dead  old  rat  that  is  all 
wormy.  .  .  .  He!  I  got  a  million  dollaire — five  million 
franc  in  my  pocket.  You  shall  learn  what  it  cost  to  rob 
Jose  Quintana!     Unnerstan'?" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  MIKE  231 

"You  liar,"  said  Clinch  contemptuously,  "I  got  them  jools 
in  my  pants  pocket " 

Quintana's  derisive  laugh  cut  him  short:  "I  give  you  thee 
Flaming  Jewel  if  you  show  me  you  got  my  gems  in  you 
pants  pocket!" 

"I'll  show  you.     Lay  down  your  rifle  so's  I  see  the  stock." 

"First  you,  my  frien'  Mike,"  said  Quintana  cautiously. 

Clinch  took  his  rifle  by  the  muzzle  and  shoved  the  stock 
into  view  so  that  Quintana  could  see  it  without  moving. 

To  his  surprise,  Quintana  did  the  same,  then  coolly 
stepped  a  pace  outside  the  shelter  of  his  hemlock  stump. 

"You  show  me  now!"  he  called  across  the  swamp. 

Clinch  stepped  into  view,  dug  into  his  pocket,  and,  cupping 
both  hands,  displayed  a  glittering  heap  of  gems 

"I  wanted  you  should  know  who's   gottem,"   b€^ai 
"before  you  hop.     It'll  give  you  something  to  thirijf.  ov 
hell." 

Quintana's  eyes  had  become  slits  again.     Neit 
stirred.     Then : 

"So  you  are  buzzard,  eh.  Clinch?  You  feed  on  dead 
man's  pockets,  eh?  You  find  Sard  somewhere  an'  you 
feed."  He  held  up  the  morocco  case,  emblazoned  with  the 
arms  of  the  Grand  Duchess  of  Esthonia,  and  shook  it  at 
Clinch. 

"In  there  is  my  share.  .  .  .  Not  all.  Ver'  quick,  now, 
I  take  yours,  too " 

Clinch  vanished  and  so  did  his  rifle;  and  Quintana's  first 
bullet  struck  the  moss  where  the  stock  had  rested. 

"You  black  crow!"  jeered  Clinch,  laughing,  " — I  need 
that  empty  case  of  yours.     And  I'm  going  after  it.  .  .  . 


,^. 


232  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

But  it's  because  your  filthy  claw  touched  my  girlie  that  you 
gotta  hop!" 

Twilight  lay  over  the  phantom  wood,  touching  with  pallid 
tints  the  flooded  forest. 

So  far  only  that  one  shot  had  been  fired.  Both  men  were 
still  manoeuvring,  always  creeping  in  circles  and  always 
lining  some  great  tree  for  shelter. 

Now,  the  gathering  dusk  was  making  them  bolder  and 
swifter;  and  twice,  already,  Clinch  caught  the  shadow  of  a 
fading  edge  of  something  that  vanished  against  the  shadows 
too  swiftly  for  a  shot. 

Now  Quintana,  keeping  a  tree  in  line,  brushed  with  his 
lithe  back  a  leafless  moose-bush  that  stood  swaying  as  he 
avoided  it. 

Instantly  a  stealthy  hope  seized  him :  he  slipped  out  of  his 
coat,  spread  it  on  the  bush,  set  the  naked  branches  swaying, 
and  darted  to  his  tree. 

Waiting,  he  saw  that  the  grey  blot  his  coat  made  in  the 
dusk  was  still  moving  a  little — just  vibrating  a  little  bit  in 
the  twilight.  He  touched  the  bush  with  his  rifle  barrel, 
then  crouched  almost  flat. 

Suddenly  the  red  crash  of  a  rifle  lit  up  Qinch's  visage 
for  a  fraction  of  a  second.  And  Quintana's  bullet  smashed 
Clinch  between  the  eyes. 

After  a  long  while  Quintana  ventured  to  rise  and  creep 
forward. 

Night,  too,  came  creeping  like  an  assassin  amid  the 
ghostly  trees. 

So  twilight  died  in  the  stillness  of  Drowned  Valley  and 
the  pall  of  night  lay  over  all  things, — living  and  dead  alike. 


Episode  Eleven 
THE  PLACE  OF   PINES 


'T^HE  last  sound  that  Mike  Clinch  heard  on  earth  wal 
the  detonation  of  his  own  rifle.  Probably  it  was  an 
agreeable  sound  to  him.  He  lay  there  with  a  pleasant 
expression  on  his  massive  features.  His  watch  had  fallen 
out  of  his  pocket. 

Quintana  shined  him  with  an  electric  torch ;  picked  up  the 
watch.  Then,  holding  the  torch  in  one  hand,  he  went 
through  the  dead  man's  pockets  very  thoroughly. 

When  Quintana  had  finished,  both  trays  of  the  flat 
morocco  case  were  full  of  jewels.  And  Quintana  was  full 
of  wonder  and  suspicion. 

Unquietly  he  looked  upon  the  dead — upon  the  glittering 
contents  of  the  jewel-box, — but  always  his  gaze  reverted 
to  the  dead.  The  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  edged  Clinch's 
lips.  Quintana's  lips  grew  graver.  He  said  slowly,  like 
one  who  does  his  thinking  aloud: 

"What  is  it  you  have  done  to  me,  I'ami  Clinch  ?  .  .  .  Are 
there  truly  then  two  sets  of  precious  stones? — two  Flaming 
Jewels? — two  gems  of  Erosite  like  there  never  has  been  in 
all  thees  worl'  excep'  only  two  more?  ...  Or  is  one  set 
false?  .  .  .  Have  I  here  one  set  of  paste  facsimiles?  .  .  . 
My  frien'  Clinch,  why  do  you  lie  there  an'  smile  at  me  so 

233 


234  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

ver'  funny  .  .  .  like  you  are  amuse  ?  .  .  .  I  am  wondering 
what  you  may  have  done  to  me,  my  frien'  Clinch.  ..." 

For  a  while  he  remained  kneeling  beside  the  dead.  Then : 
"Ah,  bah,"  he  said,  pocketing  the  morocco  case  and  getting 
to  his  feet. 

He  moved  a  little  way  toward  the  open  trail,  stopped, 
came  back,  stood  his  rifle  against  a  tree. 

For  a  while  he  was  busy  with  his  sharp  Spanish  clasp 
knife,  whittling  and  fitting  together  two  peeled  twigs.  A 
cross  was  the  ultimate  result.  Then  he  placed  Clinch's 
hands  palm  to  palm  upon  his  chest,  laid  the  cross  on  his 
breast,  and  shined  the  result  with  complacency. 

Then  Quintana  took  off  his  hat. 

"L'ami  Mike,"  he  said,  "you  were  a  man!  .  .  .  Adios !" 

Quintana  put  on  his  hat.  The  path  was  free.  The  world 
lay  open  before  Jose  Quintana  once  more; — the  world,  his 
hunting  ground. 

"But,"  he  thought  uneasily,  "what  is  it  that  I  bring  home 
this  time?  How  much  is  paste?  My  God,  how  droll  that 
smile  of  Clinch.  .  .  .  Which  is  the  false — his  jewels  or 

mine?     Dieu  que  j'etais  bete! Me  who  have  not  sus- 

pec'  that  there  are  two  trays  within  my  jewel-box!  .  .  . 
I  unnerstan'.  It  is  ver'  simple.  In  the  top  tray  the  false 
gems.  Ah!  Paste  on  top  to  deceive  a  thief!  .  .  .  Alors. 
.  .  .  Then  what  I  have  recover  of  Clinch  is  the  real!  .  .  . 
Nom  de  Dieu !  .  .  .  How  should  I  know  ?  His  smile  is  so 
ver'  funny.  ...  I  think  thees  dead  man  make  mock  of  me 
— all  inside  himse'f " 

So,  in  darkness,  prowling  south  by  west,  shining  the  trail 
furtively,   and  loaded   rifle   ready,   Quintana  moved  with 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  «36 

stealthy,  unhurried  tread  out  of  the  wilderness  that  had 
trapped  him  and  toward  the  tangled  border  of  that  outer 
world  which  led  to  safe,  obscure,  uncharted  labyrinths — 
old-world  mazes,  immemorial  hunting  grounds — ^haunted  by 
men  who  prey. 

The  night  had  turned  frosty.  Quintana,  wet  to  the  knees 
and  very  tired,  moved  slowly,  not  daring  to  leave  the  trail 
because  of  sink-holes. 

However,  the  trail  led  to  Clinch's  Dump,  and  sooner  or 
later  he  must  leave  it. 

What  he  had  to  have  was  a  fire ;  he  realised  that.  Some- 
where off  the  trail,  in  big  timber  if  possible,  he  must  build 
a  fire  and  master  this  deadly  chill  that  was  slowly  paralysing 
all  power  of  movement. 

He  knew  that  a  fire  in  the  forest,  particularly  in  big 
timber,  could  be  seen  only  a  little  way.  He  must  take  his 
chances  with  sink-holes  and  find  some  spot  in  the  forest  to 
build  that  fire. 

Who  could  discover  him  except  by  accident? 

Who  would  prowl  the  midnight  wilderness?  At  thirty 
yards  the  fire  would  not  be  visible.  And,  as  for  the  odour 
— well,  he'd  be  gone  before  dawn.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  he  must 
have  that  fire.     He  could  wait  no  longer. 

He  cut  a  pole  first.  Then  he  left  the  trail  where  a  little 
spring  flowed  west,  and  turned  to  the  right,  shining  the 
forest  floor  as  he  moved  and  sounding  with  his  pole  every 
wet  stretch  of  moss,  every  strip  of  mud,  every  tiniest  glim- 
mer of  water. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  place  of  pines,  first  growth  giants 
towering  into  night,  and,  looking  up,  saw  stars,  infinitely 


236  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

distant,  .  .  .  where  perhaps  those  things  called  souls  drifted 
like  wisps  of  vapour. 

When  the  fire  took,  Ouintana's  thin  dark  hands  had 
become  nearly  useless  from  cold.  He  could  not  have 
crooked  finger  to  trigger. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  close  to  the  blaze,  slowly  massaging 
his  torpid  limbs,  but  did  not  dare  strip  off  his  foot-gear. 

Steam  rose  from  puttee  and  heavy  shoe  and  from  the  sod- 
den woollen  breeches.  Warmth  slowly  penetrated.  There 
was  little  smoke;  the  big  dry  branches  were  dead  and 
bleached  and  he  let  the  fire  eat  into  them  without  using 
his  axe. 

Once  or  twice  he  sighed,  "Oh,  my  God,"  in  a  weary  demi- 
voice,  as  though  the  content  of  well-being  were  permeating 
him. 

Later  he  ate  and  drank  languidly,  looking  up  at  the  stars, 
speculating  as  to  the  possible  presence  of  Mike  Clinch  up 
there. 

"Ah,  the  dirty  thief,"  he  murmured;  " — nevertheless  a 
man.  Quel  homme!  Mais  bete  a  faire  pleurer!  Je  I'ai 
bien  triche,  moi!     Ha!" 

Quintana  smiled  palely  as  he  thought  of  the  coat  and  the 
gently-swaying  bush — of  the  red  glare  of  Clinch's  shot,  of 
the  death-echo  of  his  own  shot. 

Then,  uneasy,  he  drew  out  the  morocco  case  and  gazed 
at  the  two  trays  full  of  gems. 

The  jewels  blazed  in  the  firelight.  He  touched  them, 
moved  them  about,  picked  up  several  and  examined  them, 
testing  the  unset  edges  against  his  under  lip  as  an  expert 
tests  jade. 

But  he  couldn't  tell;  there  was  no  knowing.     He  re- 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  237 

placed  them,  closed  the  case,  pocketed  it.  When  he  had  a 
chance  he  could  try  boiling  water  for  one  sort  of  trick. 
He  could  scratch  one  or  two.  .  .  .  Sard  would  know.  He 
wondered  whether  Sard  had  got  away,  not  concerned  except 
selfishly.  However,  there  were  others  in  Paris  whom  ht, 
could  trust — at  a  price.  .  .  . 

Quintana  rested  both  elbows  on  his  knees  and  framed  his 
dark  face  between  both  bony  hands. 

What  a  chase  Clinch  had  led  him  after  the  Flaming  Jewel, 
And  now  Clinch  lay  dead  in  the  forest — faintly  smilingr 
At  what? 

In  a  very  low,  passionless  voice,  Quintana  cursed  monot' 
onously  as  he  gazed  into  the  fire.  In  Spanish,  French^ 
Portuguese,  Italian,  he  cursed  Clinch.  After  a  little  while 
he  remembered  Clinch's  daughter,  and  he  cursed  her,  elab- 
orately, thoroughly,  wishing  her  black  mischance  awake  and 
asleep,  living  or  dead, 

Darragh,  too,  he  remembered  in  his  curses,  and  did  not 
slight  him.  And  the  trooper,  Stormont — ah,  he  should  have 
killed  all  of  them  when  he  had  the  chance.  .  .  .  And  those 
two  Baltic  Russians,  also,  the  girl  duchess  and  her  friend. 
Why  on  earth  hadn't  he  made  a  clean  job  of  it?  Over- 
caution.  A  wary  disinclination  to  stir  up  civilization  by 
needless  murder.  But  after  all,  old  maxims,  old  beliefs,  old 
truths  are  the  best,  God  knows.  The  dead  don't  talk! 
And  that's  the  wisest  wisdom  of  all. 

"If,"  murmured  Quintana  fervently,  "God  gives  me  fur- 
ther opportunity  to  acquire  a  little  property  to  comfort  me 
in  my  old  age,  I  shall  leave  no  gossiping  fool  to  do  me  harm 
with  his  tongue.     No !     I  kill. 


238  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"And  though  they  raise  a  hue  and  cry,  dead  tongues  can 
not  wag  and  I  save  myse'f  much  annoyance  in  the  end." 

He  leaned  his  back  against  the  trunk  of  a  massive  pine. 

Presently  Quintana  slept  after  his  own  fashion — that  is 
to  say,  looking  closely  at  him  one  could  discover  a  glimmer 
under  his  lowered  eyelids.  And  he  listened  always  in  that 
kind  of  sleep.  As  though  a  shadowy  part  of  him  were 
detached  from  his  body,  and  mounted  guard  over  it. 

The  inaudible  movement  of  a  wood-mouse  venturing  into 
the  firelit  circle  awoke  Quintana.  Again  a  dropping  leaf 
amid  distant  birches  awoke  him.  Such  things.  And  so  he 
slept  with  wet  feet  to  the  fire  and  his  rifle  across  his  knees ; 
and  dreamed  of  Eve  and  of  murder,  and  that  the  Flaming 
Jewel  was  but  a  mass  of  glass. 

At  that  moment  the  girl  of  whose  white  throat  Quintana 
was  dreaming,  and  whining  faintly  in  his  dreams,  stood 
alone  outside  Clinch's  Dump,  rifle  in  hand,  listening,  fighting 
the  creeping  dread  that  touched  her  slender  body  at  times — 
seemed  to  touch  her  very  heart  with  frost. 

Clinch's  men  had  gone  on  to  Ghost  Lake  with  their 
wounded  and  dead,  where  there  was  fitter  shelter  for  both. 
All  had  gone  on ;  nobody  remained  to  await  Clinch's  home- 
coming except  Eve  Strayer. 

Black  Care,  that  tireless  squire  of  dames,  had  followed 
her  from  the  time  she  had  left  Clinch,  facing  the  spectral 
forests  of  Drowned  Valley. 

An  odd,  unusual  dread  weighted  her  heart — something 
in  emotions  that  she  never  before  had  experienced  in  time 
of  danger.  In  it  there  was  the  deathly  unease  of  pre- 
monition.    But  of  what  it  was  born  she  did  not  under- 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  239 

stand, — perhaps  of  the  strain  of  dangers  passed — of  the 
shock  of  discovery  concerning  Smith's  identity  with 
Darragh — Darragh! — the  hated  kinsman  of  Harrod  the 
abhorred. 

Fiercely  she  wondered  how  much  her  lover  knew  about 
this  miserable  masquerade.  Was  Stormont  involved  in  this 
deception — Stormont,  the  object  of  her  first  girl's  passion — 
Stormont,  for  whom  she  would  have  died? 

Wretched,  perplexed,  fiercely  enraged  at  Darragh,  deadly 
anxious  concerning  Clinch,  she  had  gone  about  cooking 
supper. 

The  supper,  kept  warm  on  the  range,  still  awaited  the 
man  who  had  no  more  need  of  meat  and  drink. 

Of  the  tragedy  of  Sard  Eve  knew  nothing.  There  were 
no  traces  save  in  the  disorder  in  the  pantry  and  the  bottles 
and  chair  on  the  veranda. 

Who  had  visited  the  place  excepting  those  from  whom 
she  and  Stormont  had  fled,  did  not  appear.  She  had  no 
idea  why  her  step- father's  mattress  and  bed-quilt  lay  in  the 
pantry. 

Her  heart  heavy  with  ceaseless  anxiety,  Eve  carried  mat- 
tress and  bed-clothes  to  Clinch's  chamber,  re-made  his  bed, 
wandered  through  the  house  setting  it  in  order ;  then,  in  the 
kitchen,  seated  herself  and  waited  until  the  strange  dread 
that  possessed  her  drove  her  out  into  the  starlight  to  stand 
and  listen  and  stare  at  the  dark  forest  where  all  her  dread 
seemed  concentrated. 

It  was  not  yet  dawn,  but  the  girl  could  endure  the  strain 
no  longer. 


240  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

With  electric  torch  and  rifle  she  started  for  the  forest, 
almost  running  at  first ;  then,  among  the  first  trees,  moving 
with  caution  and  in  silence  along  the  trail  over  which  Clinch 
should  long  since  have  journeyed  homeward. 

In  soft  places,  when  she  ventured  to  flash  her  torch,  foot- 
prints cast  curious  shadows,  and  it  was  hard  to  make  out 
tracks  so  oddly  distorted  by  the  light.  Prints  mingled  and 
partly  obliterated  other  prints.  She  identified  her  own  tracks 
leading  south,  and  guessed  at  the  others,  pointing  north  and 
south,  where  they  had  carried  in  the  wounded  and  had  gone 
back  to  bring  in  the  dead. 

But  nowhere  could  she  discover  any  impression  resembling 
her  step-father's, — that  great,  firm  stride  and  solid  imprint 
which  so  often  she  had  tracked  through  moss  and  swale 
and  which  she  knew  so  well. 

Once  when  she  got  up  from  her  knees  after  close  exam- 
ination of  the  muddy  trail,  she  became  aware  of  the  slightest 
taint  in  the  night  air — stood  with  delicate  nostrils  quivering 
— ^advanced,  still  conscious  of  the  taint,  listening,  wary, 
every  stealthy  instinct  alert. 

She  had  not  been  mistaken :  somewhere  in  the  forest  there 
was  smoke.  Somewhere  a  fire  was  burning.  It  might  not 
be  very  far  away;  it  might  be  distant.  Whose  fire?  Her 
father's?     Would  a  hunter  of  men  build  a  fire? 

The  girl  stood  shivering  in  the  darkness.  There  was  not 
a  sound. 

Now,  keeping  her  cautious  feet  in  the  trail  by  sense  of 
touch  alone,  she  moved  on.  Gradually,  as  she  advanced, 
the  odour  of  smoke  became  more  distinct.  She  heard 
nothing,  saw  nothing;  but  there  was  a  near  reek  of  smoke 
in  her  nostrils  and  she  stopped  short. 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  Ml 

After  a  little  while  in  the  intense  silence  of  the  forest  she 
ventured  to  touch  the  switch  of  her  torch,  very  cautiously. 

In  the  faint,  pale  lustre  she  saw  a  tiny  rivulet  flowing 
westward  from  a  spring,  and,  beside  it,  in  the  mud,  im- 
prints of  a  man's  feet. 

The  tracks  were  small,  narrow,  slimmer  than  imprints 
made  by  any  man  she  could  think  of.  Under  the  glimmer 
of  her  torch  they  seemed  quite  fresh;  contours  were  still 
sharp,  some  ready  to  crumble,  and  water  stood  in  the  heels. 

A  little  way  she  traced  them,  saw  where  their  maker  had 
cut  a  pole,  peeled  it;  saw,  farther  on,  where  this  unknown 
man  had  probed  in  moss  and  mud — peppered  some  particu- 
larly suspicious  swale  with  a  series  of  holes  as  though  a 
giant  woodcock  had  been  "boring"  there. 

Who  was  this  man  wandering  all  alone  at  night  off  the 
Drowned  Valley  trail  and  probing  the  darkness  with  a  pole  ? 

She  knew  it  was  not  her  father.  She  knew  that  no  native 
— none  of  her  father's  men — would  behave  in  such  a  man- 
ner. Nor  could  any  of  these  have  left  such  narrow,  almost 
delicate  tracks. 

As  she  stole  along,  dimly  shining  the  tracks,  lifting  her 
head  incessantly  to  listen  and  peer  into  the  darkness,  her 
quick  eye  caught  something  ahead — something  very  slightly 
different  from  the  wall  of  black  obscurity — a  vague  hint 
of  colour — the  very  vaguest  tint  scarcely  perceptible  at  all. 

But  she  knew  it  was  firelight  touching  the  trunk  of  an 
unseen  tree. 

Now,  soundlessly  over  damp  pine  needles  she  crept.  The 
scent  of  smoke  grew  strong  in  nostril  and  throat;  the  pale 
tint  became  palely  reddish.  All  about  her  the  blackness 
seemed  palpable — seemed  to  touch  her  body  with  its  weight ; 


242  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

but,  ahead,  a  ruddy  glow  stained  two  huge  pines.  And 
presently  she  saw  the  fire,  burning  low,  but  redly  alive. 
And,  after  a  long,  long  while,  she  saw  a  man. 

He  had  left  the  fire  circle.  His  pack  and  belted  mackinaw 
still  lay  there  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree.  But  when,  finally, 
she  discovered  him,  he  was  scarcely  visible  where  he 
crouched  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree-trunk,  with  his  rifle  half 
lowered  at  a  ready. 

Had  he  heard  her?  It  did  not  seem  possible.  Had  he 
been  crouching  there  since  he  made  his  fire?  Why  had  he 
made  it  then — for  its  warmth  could  not  reach  him  there. 
And  why  was  he  so  stealthily  watching — silent,  unstirring, 
crouched  in  the  shadows  ? 

She  strained  her  eyes;  but  distance  and  obscurity  made 
recognition  impossible.  And  yet,  somehow,  every  quivering 
instinct  within  her  was  telling  her  that  the  crouched  and 
shadowy  watcher  beyond  the  fire  was  Quintana. 

And  every  concentrated  instinct  was  telling  her  that  he'd 
kill  her  if  he  caught  sight  of  her;  her  heart  clamoured  it; 
her  pulses  thumped  it  in  her  ears. 

Had  the  girl  been  capable  of  it  she  could  have  killed  him 
where  he  crouched.  She  thought  of  it,  but  knew  it  was  not 
in  her  to  do  it.  And  yet  Quintana  had  boasted  that  he 
meant  to  kill  her  father.  That  was  what  terribly  concerned 
her.  And  there  must  be  a  way  to  stop  that  danger — some 
way  to  stop  it  short  of  murder, — a  way  to  render  this  man 
harmless  to  her  and  hers. 

No,  she  could  not  kill  him  this  way.  Except  in  extremes 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  fire  upon  any  human  creature. 
And  yet  this  man  must  be  rendered  harmless — somehow — 
somehow — ah ! 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  243 

As  the  problem  presented  itself  its  solution  flashed  into 
her  mind.  Men  of  the  wilderness  knew  how  to  take 
dangerous  creatures  alive.  To  take  a  dangerous  and 
reasoning  human  was  even  less  difficult,  because  reason 
makes  more  mistakes  than  does  instinct. 

Stealthily,  without  a  sound,  the  girl  crept  back  through 
the  shadows  over  the  damp  pine  needles,  until,  peering  fear- 
fully over  her  shoulder,  she  saw  the  last  ghost-tint  of 
Quintana's  fire  die  out  in  the  terrific  dark  behind. 

Slowly,  still,  she  moved  until  her  sensitive  feet  felt  the 
trodden  path  from  Drowned  Valley. 

Now,  with  torch  flaring,  she  ran,  carrying  her  rifle  at  a 
trail.  Before  her,  here  and  there,  little  night  creatures  fled 
— a  humped-up  raccoon,  dazzled  by  the  glare,  a  barred  owl 
still  struggling  with  its  wood-rat  kill. 

She  ran  easily, — an  agile,  tireless  young  thing,  part  of 
the  swiftness  and  silence  of  the  woods — part  of  the  dark- 
ness, the  sinuous  celerity,  the  ominous  hush  of  wide,  still 
places — part  of  its  very  blood  and  pulse  and  hot,  sweet 
breath. 

Even  when  she  came  out  among  the  birches  by  Clinch's 
Dump  she  was  breathing  evenly  and  without  distress.  She 
ran  to  the  kitchen  door  but  did  not  enter.  On  pegs 
under  the  porch  a  score  or  more  of  rusty  traps  hung.  She 
unhooked  the  largest,  wound  the  chain  around  it,  tucked  it 
under  her  left  arm  and  started  back. 

When  at  last  she  arrived  at  the  place  of  pines  again,  and 
saw  the  far,  spectral  glimmer  of  Quintana's  fire,  the  girl 
was  almost  breathless.     But  dawn  was  not  very  far  away 


244  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

and  there  remained  little  time  for  the  taking  alive  of  a 
dangerous  man. 

Where  two  enormous  pines  grew  close  together  near  a 
sapling,  she  knelt  down,  and,  with  both  hands,  scooped  out 
a  big  hollow  in  the  immemorial  layers  of  pine  needles. 
Here  she  placed  her  trap.  It  took  all  her  strength  and  skill 
to  set  it ;  to  fasten  the  chain  around  the  base  of  the  sapling 
pine. 

And  now,  working  with  only  the  faintest  glimmer  of  her 
torch,  she  covered  everything  with  pine  needles. 

It  was  not  possible  to  restore  the  forest  floor;  the  place 
remained  visible — a  darker,  rougher  patch  on  the  bronzed 
carpet  of  needles  beaten  smooth  by  decades  of  rain  and 
snow.  No  animal  would  have  trodden  that  suspicious 
space.  But  it  was  with  man  she  had  to  deal — a  dangerous 
but  reasoning  man  with  few  and  atrophied  instincts — and 
with  no  experience  in  traps ;  and,  therefore,  in  no  dread  of 
them. 

Before  she  started  she  had  thrown  a  cartridge  into  the 
breech  of  her  rifle. 

Now  she  pocketed  her  torch  and  seated  herself  between 
the  two  big  pines  and  about  three  feet  behind  the  hidden 
trap. 

Dawn  was  not  far  away.  She  looked  upward  through 
high  pine-tops  where  stars  shone;  and  saw  no  sign  of  dawn. 
But  the  watcher  by  the  fire  beyond  was  astir,  now,  in  the 
imminence  of  dawn,  and  evidently  meant  to  warm  himself 
before  leaving. 

Eve  could  hear  him  piling  dry  wood  on  the  fire;  the  light 
on  the  tree  trunks  grew  redder;  a  pungent  reek  of  smoke 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  245 

was  drawn  through  the  foiest  aisles.    She  sniffed  it,  listened, 
and  watched,  her  rifle  across  her  knees. 

Eve  never  had  been  afraid  of  anything.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  this  man.  If  it  came  to  combat  she  would  have 
to  kill.  It  never  entered  her  mind  to  fear  Quintana's  rifle. 
Even  Clinch  was  not  as  swift  with  a  rifle  as  she.  .  .  .  Only 
Stormont  had  been  swifter — thank  God! 

She  thought  of  Stormont — sat  there  in  the  terrific  dark- 
ness loving  him,  her  heart  of  a  child  tremulous  with 
adoration. 

Then  the  memory  of  Darragh  pushed  in  and  hot  hatred 
possessed  her.  Always,  in  her  heart,  she  had  distrusted 
the  man. 

Instinct  had  warned  her.  A  spy!  What  evil  had  he 
worked  already?  Where  was  her  father?  Evidently 
Quintana  had  escaped  him  at  Drowned  Valley.  .  .  .  Ouin- 
tana  was  yonder  by  his  fire,  preparing  to  flee  the  wilderness 
where  men  hunted  him.  .  .  .  But  where  was  Clinch  ?  Had 
this  sneak,  Darragh,  betrayed  him?  Was  Clinch  already 
in  the  clutch  of  the  State  Troopers?     Was  he  in  jail? 

At  the  thought  the  girl  felt  slightly  faint,  then  a  rush  of 
angry  blood  stung  her  face  in  the  darkness.  Except  for 
game  and  excise  violations  the  stories  they  told  about  Clinch 
were  lies. 

He  had  nothing  to  fear,  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
Harrod  had  driven  him  to  lawlessness ;  the  Government  took 
away  what  was  left  him  to  make  a  living.  He  had  to  live. 
What  if  he  did  break  laws  made  by  millionaire  and  fanatic! 
What  of  it?  He  had  her  love  and  her  respect — and  her 
deep,  deep  pity.  And  these  were  enough  for  any  girl  to 
fight  for. 


246  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Dawn  spread  a  silvery  light  above  the  pines,  but  Quin- 
tana's  fire  still  reddened  the  tree  trunks ;  and  she  could  hear 
him  feeding  it  at  intervals. 

Finally  she  saw  him.  He  came  out  on  the  edge  of  the 
ruddy  ring  of  light  and  stood  peering  around  at  the  woods 
where  already  a  vague  greyness  was  revealing  nearer  trees. 

When,  finally,  he  turned  his  back  and  looked  at  his  fire, 
Eve  rose  and  stood  between  the  two  big  pines.  Behind  one 
of  them  she  placed  her  rifle. 

It  was  growing  lighter  in  the  woods.  She  could  see 
Quintana  in  the  fire  ring  and  outside, — saw  him  go  to  the 
spring  rivulet,  lie  flat,  drink,  then,  on  his  knees,  wash  face 
and  hands  in  the  icy  water. 

It  became  plain  to  her  that  he  was  nearly  ready  to  depart. 
She  watched  him  preparing.  And  now  she  could  see  him 
plainly,  and  knew  him  to  be  Quintana  and  no  other. 

He  had  a  light  basket  pack.  He  put  some  articles  into  it, 
stretched  himself  and  yawned,  pulled  on  his  hat,  hoisted  the 
pack  and  fastened  it  to  his  back,  stood  staring  at  the  fire 
for  a  long  time;  then,  with  a  sudden  upward  look  at  the 
zenith  where  a  slight  flush  stained  a  cloud,  he  picked  up 
his  rifle. 

At  that  moment  Eve  called  to  him  in  a  clear  and  steady 
voice. 

The  effect  on  Quintana  was  instant ;  he  was  behind  a  tree 
before  her  voice  ceased. 

"Hallo !  Hi !  You  over  there !"  she  called  again.  "This 
is  Eve  Strayer.  I'm  looking  for  Clinch!  He  hasn't  been 
home  all  night.     Have  you  seen  him?" 

After  a  moment  she  saw  Quintana's  head  watching  her, — 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  247 

not  at  the  shoulder-height  of  a  man  but  close  to  the  ground 
and  just  above  the  tree  roots. 

"Hey!"  she  cried.  "What's  the  matter  with  you  over 
there?  I'm  asking  you  who  you  are  and  if  you've  seen 
my  father?" 

After  a  while  she  saw  Quintana  coming  toward  her, 
circling,  creeping  swiftly  from  tree  to  tree. 

As  he  flitted  through  the  shadows  the  trees  between  which 
she  was  standing  hid  her  from  him  a  moment.  Instantly 
she  placed  her  rifle  on  the  ground  and  kicked  the  pine 
needles  over  it. 

As  Quintana  continued  his  encircling  manoeuvres  Eve, 
apparently  perplexed,  walked  out  into  the  clear  space,  put- 
ting the  concealed  trap  between  her  and  Quintana,  who  now 
came  stealthily  toward  her  from  the  rear. 

It  was  evident  that  he  had  reconnoitred  sufficiently  to 
satisfy  himself  that  the  girl  was  alone  and  that  no  trick, 
no  ambuscade,  threatened  him. 

And  now,  from  behind  a  pine,  and  startlingly  near  her, 
came  Quintana,  moving  with  confident  grace  yet  holding 
his  rifle  ready  for  any  emergency. 

Eve's  horrified  stare  was  natural;  she  had  not  realised 
that  any  man  could  wear  so  evil  a  smile. 

Quintana  stopped  short  a  dozen  paces  away.  The  dra- 
matic in  him  demanded  of  the  moment  its  full  value.  He 
swept  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish,  bowed  deeply  where  he 
stood. 

"Ah!"  he  cried  gaily,  "the  happy  encounter,  Sefiorita. 
God  is  too  good  to  us.  And  it  was  but  a  moment  since 
my  thoughts  were  of  you !     I  swear  it ! " 

It  was  not  fear;  it  was  a  sort  of  slow  horror  of  this  man 


248  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

that  began  to  creep  over  the  girl.  She  stared  at  his  brilliant 
eyes,  at  his  thick  mouth,  too  red — shuddered  slightly.  But 
the  toe  of  her  right  foot  touched  the  stock  of  her  rifle  under 
the  pine  needles. 

She  held  herself  under  control. 

"So  it's  you,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "I  thought  our  people 
had  caught  you." 

Quintana  laughed:  "Charming  child,"  he  said,  "it  is  / 
who  have  caught  your  people.  And  now,  my  God ! — I  catch 
you!  ...  It  is  ver'  funny.     Is  it  not?" 

She  looked  straight  into  Quintana's  black  eyes,  but  the 
look  he  returned  sent  the  shamed  blood  surging  into  her  face. 

"By  God,"  he  said  between  his  white,  even  teeth, — "by 
God!" 

Staring  at  her  he  slowly  disengaged  his  pack,  let  it  fall 
behind  him  on  the  pine  needles ;  rested  his  rifle  on  it ;  slipped 
out  of  his  mackinaw  and  laid  that  across  his  rifle — always 
keeping  his  brilliant  eyes  on  her. 

His  lips  tightened,  the  muscles  in  his  dark  face  grew 
tense ;  his  eyes  became  a  blazing  insult. 

For  an  instant  he  stood  there,  unencumbered,  a  wiry, 
graceful  shape  in  his  woollen  breeches,  leggings,  and  grey 
shirt  open  at  the  throat.  Then  he  took  a  step  toward  her. 
And  the  girl  watched  him,  fascinated. 

One  pace,  two,  a  third,  a  fourth — the  girl's  involuntary 
cry  echoed  the  stumbling  crash  of  the  man  thrashing,  claw- 
ing, scrambling  in  the  clenched  jaws  of  the  bear-trap  amid 
a  whirl  of  flying  pine  needles. 

He  screamed  once,  tried  to  rise,  turned  blindly  to  seize 
the  jaws  that  clutched  him;  and  suddenly  crouched,  loose- 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  249 

jointed,  cringing  like  a  trapped  wolf — the  true  fatalist 
among  our  lesser  brothers. 

Eve  picked  up  her  rifle.  She  was  trembling  violently. 
Then,  mastering  her  emotion,  she  walked  over  to  the  pack, 
placed  Quintana's  rifle  and  mackinaw  in  it,  coolly  hoisted 
it  to  her  shoulders  and  buckled  it  there. 

Over  her  shoulder  she  kept  an  eye  on  Quintana  who 
crouched  where  he  had  fallen,  unstirring,  his  deadly  eyes 
watching  her. 

She  placed  the  muzzle  of  her  rifle  against  his  stomach, 
rested  it  so,  holding  it  with  one  hand,  and  her  finger  at  the 
trigger. 

At  her  brief  order  he  turned  out  both  breeches  pockets. 
She  herself  stooped  and  drew  the  Spanish  clasp-knife  from 
its  sheath  at  his  belt,  took  a  pistol  from  the  holster,  another 
out  of  his  hip  pocket.  Reaching  up  and  behind  her,  she 
dropped  these  into  the  pack. 

"Maybe,"  she  said  slowly,  "your  ankle  is  broken.  I'll 
send  somebody  from  Ghost  Lake  to  find  you.  But  whether 
you've  a  broken  bone  or  not  you'll  not  go  very  far,  Quin- 
tana. .  .  .  After  I'm  gone  you'll  be  able  to  free  yourself. 
But  you  can't  get  away.  You'll  be  followed  and  caught. 
.  .  .  So  if  you  can  walk  at  all  you'd  better  go  in  to  Ghost 
Lake  and  give  yourself  up.  .  .  .  It's  that  or  starvation. 
,  .  .  You've  got  a  watch.  .  .  .  Don't  stir  or  touch  that  trap 
for  half  an  hour.  .  .  .  And  that's  all." 

As  she  moved  away  toward  the  Drowned  Valley  trail 
she  looked  back  at  him.  His  face  was  bloodless  but  his 
black  eyes  blazed. 

"If  ever  you  come  into  this  forest  again,"  she  said,  "my 
father  will  surely  kill  you." 


250  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

To  her  horror  Quintana  slowly  grinned  at  her.  Then, 
still  grinning,  he  placed  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand 
between  his  teeth  and  bit  it. 

Whatever  he  meant  by  the  gesture  it  seemed  unclean, 
horrible ;  and  the  girl  hurried  on,  seized  with  an  overwhelm- 
ing loathing  through  which  a  sort  of  terror  pulsated  like  evil 
premonition  in  a  heavy  and  tortured  heart. 

Straight  into  the  fire  of  dawn  she  sped.  A  pale  primrose 
light  glimmered  through  the  woods;  trees,  bushes,  under- 
growth turned  a  dusky  purple.  Already  the  few  small 
clouds  overhead  were  edged  with  fiery  rose. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  a  shaft  of  flame  played  over  the  forest. 
The  sun  had  risen. 

Hastening,  she  searched  the  soft  path  for  any  imprint  of 
her  father's  foot.  And  even  in  the  vain  search  she  hoped 
to  find  him  at  home — ^hurried  on  burdened  with  two  rifles 
and  a  pack,  still  all  nervous  and  aquiver  from  her  encounter 
with  Quintana. 

Surely,  surely,  she  thought,  if  he  had  missed  Quintana 
in  Drowned  Valley  he  would  not  linger  in  that  ghastly  place ; 
he'd  come  home,  call  in  his  men,  take  counsel  perhaps • 

Mist  over  Star  Pond  was  dissolving  to  a  golden  powder 
in  the  blinding  glory  of  the  sun.  The  eastern  window-panes 
in  Clinch's  Dump  glittered  as  though  the  rooms  inside  were 
all  on  fire. 

Down  through  withered  weeds  and  scrub  she  hurried,  ran 
across  the  grass  to  the  kitchen  door  which  swung  ajar  under 
its  porch. 

"Dad!"  she  called,  "Dad!" 
>     Only  her  own  frightened  voice  echoed  in  the  empty  house. 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  851 

She  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  room.  The  bed  lay  undis- 
turbed as  she  had  made  it  He  was  not  in  any  of  the 
rooms ;  there  were  no  signs  of  him. 

Slowly  she  descended  to  the  kitchen.  He  was  not  there. 
The  food  she  had  prepared  for  him  had  become  cold  on  a 
chilled  range. 

For  a  long  while  she  stood  staring  through  the  window 
at  the  sunlight  outside.  Probably,  since  Quintana  had 
eluded  him,  he'd  come  home  for  something  to  eat.  .  .  . 
Surely,  now  that  Quintana  had  escaped,  Clinch  would  come 
back  for  some  breakfast. 

Eve  slipped  the  pack  from  her  back  and  laid  it  on  the 
kitchen  table.  There  was  kindling  in  the  wood-box.  She 
shook  down  the  cinders,  laid  a  fire,  soaked  it  with  kerosene, 
lighted  it,  filled  the  kettle  with  fresh  water. 

In  the  pantry  she  cut  some  ham,  and  found  eggs,  con- 
densed milk,  butter,  bread,  and  an  apple  pie.  After  she  had 
ground  the  coffee  she  placed  all  these  on  a  tray  and  carried 
them  into  the  kitchen. 

Now  there  was  nothing  more  to  do  until  her  father  came, 
and  she  sat  down  by  the  kitchen  table  to  wait. 

Outside  the  sunlight  was  becoming  warm  and  vivid. 
There  had  been  no  frost  after  all — or,  at  most,  merely  a 
white  trace  in  the  shadow — on  a  fallen  plank  here  and  there 
— but  not  enough  to  freeze  the  ground.  And,  in  the  sun- 
shine, it  all  quickly  turned  to  dew,  and  glittered  and  sparkled 
in  a  million  hues  and  tints  like  gems — like  that  handful  of 
jewels  she  had  poured  into  her  father's  joined  palms — 
yesterday — there  at  the  ghostly  edge  of  Drowned  Valley. 

At  the  memory,  and  quite  mechanically,  she  turned  in  her 
chair  and  drew  Quintana's  basket  pack  toward  her. 


252  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

First  she  lifted  out  his  rifle,  examined  it,  set  it  against 
the  window  sill.  Then,  one  by  one,  she  drew  out  two 
pistols,  loaded;  the  murderous  Spanish  clasp-knife;  an  axe; 
a  fry-pan  and  a  tin  pail,  and  the  rolled-up  mackinaw. 

Under  these  the  pack  seemed  to  contain  nothing  except 
food  and  ammunition;  staples  in  sacks  and  a  few  cans — 
lard,  salt,  tea — such  things. 

The  cartridge  boxes  she  piled  up  on  the  table ;  the  food 
she  tossed  into  a  tin  swill  bucket. 

About  the  effects  of  this  man  it  seemed  to  her  as  though 
something  unclean  lingered.  She  could  scarcely  bear  to 
handle  them, — threw  them  from  her  with  disgust. 

The  garment,  also — the  heavy  brown  and  green  mack- 
inaw— she  disliked  to  touch.  To  throw  it  out  doors  was 
her  intention;  but,  as  she  lifted  the  coat,  it  unrolled  and 
some  things  fell  from  the  pockets  to  the  kitchen  table, — 
money,  keys,  a  watch,  a  flat  leather  case 

She  looked  stupidly  at  the  case.  It  had  a  coat  of  arms 
emblazoned  on  it. 

Still,  stupidly  and  as  though  dazed,  she  laid  one  hand  on 
it,  drew  it  to  her,  opened  it. 

The  Flaming  Jewel  blazed  in  her  face  amid  a  heap  of 
glittering  gems. 

Still  she  seemed  slow  to  comprehend — ^as  though  under- 
standing were  paralysed. 

It  was  when  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  watch  that  her  heart 
seemed  to  stop.     Suddenly  her  stunned  senses  were  lighted 

as  by  an  infernal  flare Under  the  awful  'blow  she 

swayed  upright  to  her  feet,  sick  with  fright,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  her  father's  watch. 

It  was  still  ticking. 


THE  PLACE  OF  PINES  253 

She  did  not  know  whether  she  cried  out  in  anguish  or 
was  dumb  under  it.  The  house  seemed  to  reel  around  her; 
under  foot  too. 

When  she  came  to  her  senses  she  found  herself  outside 
the  house,  running  with  her  rifle,  already  entering  the  woods. 
But,  inside  the  barrier  of  trees,  something  blocked  her  way, 
stopped  her, — a  man — her  man! 

"Eve!     In  God's  name! "  he  said  as  she  struggled 

in  his  arms ;  but  she  fought  him  and  strove  to  tear  her  body 
from  his  embrace: 

"They've  killed  Dad!"  she  panted,— "Quintana  killed 
him.  I  didn't  know — oh,  I  didn't  know! — and  I  let  Quin- 
tana  go!  Oh,  Jack,  Jack,  he's  at  the  Place  of  Pines!  I'm 
going  there  to  shoot  him!  Let  me  go! — ^he's  killed  Dad, 
1  tell  you !  He  had  Dad's  watch — ^and  the  case  of  jewels — ' 
they  were  in  his  pack  on  the  kitchen  table " 

"Eve!" 

"Let  me  go! " 

"Eve!"  He  held  her  rigid  a  moment  in  his  powerful  grip, 
compelled  her  dazed,  half-crazed  eyes  to  meet  his  own: 

"You  must  come  to  your  senses,"  he  said.  "Listen  to 
what  I  say :  they  are  bringing  in  your  father." 

Her  dilated  blue  eyes  never  moved  from  his. 

"We  found  him  in  Drowned  Valley  at  sunrise,"  said 
Stormont  quietly.  "The  men  are  only  a  few  rods  behind 
me.     They  are  carrying  him  out." 

Her  lips  made  a  word  without  sound. 

"Yes,"  said  Stormont  in  a  low  voice. 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  woods  behind  them.  Stormont 
turned.    Far  away  down  the  trail  the  men  came  into  sight. 


264  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Then  the  State  Trooper  turned  the  girl  very  gently  and 
placed  one  arm  around  her  shoulders. 

Very  slowly  they  descended  the  hill  together.  His  equip- 
ment was  shining  in  the  morning  sun :  and  the  sun  fell  on 
Eve's  drooping  head,  turning  her  chestnut  hair  to  fiery  gold.. 

An  hour  later  Trooper  Stormont  was  at  the  Place  of 
Pines. 

There  was  nothing  there  except  an  empty  trap  and  the 
ashes  of  the  dying  fire  beyond. 


Episode  Twelve 
HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES 


'T^OWARD  noon  the  wind  changed,  and  about  one 
■*•     o'clock  it  began  to  snow. 

Eve,  exhausted,  lay  on  the  sofa  in  her  bedroom.  Her 
step-father  lay  on  a  table  in  the  dance  hall  below,  covered  by 
a  sheet  from  his  own  bed.  And  beside  him  sat  Trooper 
Stormont,  waiting. 

It  was  snowing  heavily  when  Mr.  Lyken,  the  little  under- 
taker from  Ghost  Lake,  arrived  with  several  assistants,  a 
casket,  and  what  he  called  "swell  trimmings." 

Long  ago  Mike  Clinch  had  selected  his  own  mortuary 
site  and  had  driven  a  section  of  iron  pipe  into  the  ground 
on  a  ferny  knoll  overlooking  Star  Pond.  In  explanation  he 
grimly  remarked  to  Eve  that  after  death  he  preferred  to  be 
planted  where  he  could  see  that  Old  Harrod's  ghost  didn't 
trespass. 

Here  two  of  Mr.  Lyken's  able  assistants  dug  a  grave 
while  the  digging  was  still  good;  for  if  Mike  Clinch  was  to 
lie  underground  that  season  there  might  be  need  of  haste — 
no  weather  prophet  ever  having  successfully  forecast  Ad- 
irondack weather. 

Eve,  exhausted  by  shock  and  a  sleepless  night,  was  spared 
the  more  harrowing  details  of  the  coroner's  visit  and  the 

255 


256  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

subsequent  jaunty  activities  of  Mr.  Lyken  and  his  efficient 
assistants. 

She  had  managed  to  dress  herself  in  a  black  wool  gown, 
intending  to  watch  by  Mike,  but  Stormont's  blunt  authority 
prevailed  and  she  lay  down  for  an  hour's  rest. 

The  hour  lengthened  into  many  hours;  the  girl  slept 
heavily  on  her  sofa  under  blankets  laid  over  her  by  Stormont. 

All  that  dark,  snowy  day  she  slept,  mercifully  unconscious 
of  the  proceedings  below. 

In  its  own  mysterious  way  the  news  penetrated  the  wilder- 
ness; and  out  of  the  desolation  of  forest  and  swamp  and 
mountain  drifted  the  people  who  somehow  existed  there — a 
few  shy,  half  wild  young  girls,  a  dozen  silent,  lank  men,  two 
or  three  of  Clinch's  own  people,  who  stood  silently  about  in 
the  falling  snow  and  lent  a  hand  whenever  requested. 

One  long  shanked  youth  cut  hemlock  to  line  the  grave; 
others  erected  a  little  fence  of  silver  birch  around  it,  making 
of  the  enclosure  a  "plot." 

A  gaunt  old  woman  from  God  knows  where  aided  Mr. 
Lyken  at  intervals :  a  pretty,  sulky-eyed  girl  with  her  slov- 
enly, red-headed  sister  cooked  for  anybody  who  desired 
nourishment. 

When  Mike  was  ready  to  hold  the  inevitable  reception 
everybody  filed  into  the  dance  hall.  Mr.  Lyken  was  master 
of  ceremonies;  Trooper  Stormont  stood  very  tall  and 
straight  by  the  head  of  the  casket. 

Clinch  wore  a  vague,  indefinable  smile  and  his  best 
clothes, — that  same  smile  which  had  so  troubled  Jose  Quin- 
tana. 

Light  was  fading  fast  in  the  room  when  the  last  visitor 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES  257 

took  silent  leave  of  Clinch  and  rejoined  the  groups  in  the 
kitchen,  where  were  the  funeral  baked  meats. 

Eve  still  slept.  Descending  again  from  his  reconnaissance, 
Trooper  Stormont  encountered  Trooper  Lannis  below. 

"Has  anybody  picked  up  Quintana's  tracks?"  inquired  the 
former. 

"Not  so  far.  An  Inspector  and  two  State  Game  Pro- 
tectors are  out  beyond  Owl  Marsh.  The  Troopers  from 
Five  Lakes  are  on  the  job,  and  we  have  enforcement  men 
along  Drowned  Valley  from  The  Scaur  to  Harrod  Place." 

"Does  Darragh  know?" 

"Yes.  He's  in  there  with  Mike.  He  brought  a  lot  of 
flowers  from  Harrod  Place." 

The  two  troopers  went  into  the  dance  hall  where  Darragh 
was  arranging  the  flowers  from  his  greenhouses. 

Stormont  said  quietly :  "All  right,  Jim,  but  Eve  must  not 
know  that  they  came  from  Harrod's." 

Darragh  nodded:    "How  is  she.  Jack?" 

"All  in." 

"Do  you  know  the  story?" 

"Yes.  Mike  went  into  Drowned  Valley  early  last  evening 
after  Quintana.  He  didn't  come  back.  Before  dawn  this 
morning  Eve  located  Quintana,  set  a  bear-trap  for  him,  and 
caught  him  with  the  goods — — " 

"What  goods?"  demanded  Darragh  sharply. 

"Well,  she  got  his  pack  and  found  Mike's  watch  and 
jewelry  in  it " 

"What  jewelry?" 

"The  jewels  Quintana  was  after.  But  that  was  after  she'd 
arrived  at  the  Dump,  here,  leaving  Quintana  to  get  free  of 
the  trap  and  beat  it. 


258  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

"That's  how  I. met  her — half  crazed,  going  to  find  Quin- 
tana  again.  We'd  found  Mike  in  Drowned  Valley  and  were 
bringing  him  out  when  I  ran  into  Eve.  ...  I  brought  her 
back  here  and  called  Ghost  Lake.  .  .  .  They  haven't  picked 
up  Quintana's  tracks  so  far." 

After  a  silence :  "Too  bad  this  snow  came  so  late,"  re- 
marked Trooper  Lannis.  But  we  ought  to  get  Quintana 
anyway." 

Darragh  went  over  and  looked  silently  at  Mike  Clinch. 

"I  liked  you,"  he  said  under  his  breath.  "It  wasn't  your 
fault.  And  it  wasn't  mine,  Mike.  .  .  .  I'll  try  to  square 
things.     Don't  worry." 

He  came  back  slowly  to  where  Stormont  was  standing 
near  the  door : 

"Jack,"  he  said,  "you  can't  marry  Eve  on  a  Trooper's 
pay.  Why  not  quit  and  take  over  the  Harrod  estate?  .  .  . 
You  and  I  can  go  into  business  together  later  if  you  like." 

After  a  pause :  "That's  rather  wonderful  of  you,  Jim," 
said  Stormont,  "but  you  don't  know  what  sort  of  business 
man  I'd  make " 

"I  know  what  sort  of  officer  you  made.  .  .  .  I'm  taking 
no  chance.  .  .  .  And  I'll  make  my  peace  with  Eve — or 
somebody  will  do  it  for  me.  ...  Is  it  settled  then?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Trooper  Stormont,  reddening.  They 
clasped  hands.  Then  Stormont  went  about  and  lighted  the 
candles  in  the  room.  Clinch's  face,  again  revealed,  was  still 
faintly  amused  at  something  or  other.  The  dead  have  much 
to  be  amused  at. 

As  Darragh  was  about  to  go,  Stormont  said :  "We're 
burying  Clinch  at  eleven  to-morrow  morning.  The  Ghost 
Lake  Pilot  officiates." 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES  259 

"I'll  come  if  it  won't  upset  Eve,"  said  Darragh, 
"She  won't  notice  anybody,   I   fancy,"   remarked   Stor- 
mont. 

He  stood  by  the  veranda  and  watched  Darragh  take  the 
Lake  Trail  through  the  snow.  Finally  the  glimmer  of  his 
swinging  lantern  was  lost  in  the  woods  and  Stormont 
mounted  the  stairs  once  more,  stood  silently  by  Eve's  open 
door,  realised  she  was  still  heavily  asleep,  and  seated  him- 
self on  a  chair  outside  her  door  to  watch  and  wait. 

All  night  long  it  snowed  hard  over  the  Star  Pond  coun- 
try, and  the  late  grey  light  of  morning  revealed  a  blinding 
storm  pelting  a  white  robed  world. 

Toward  ten  o'clock,  Stormont,  on  guard,  noticed  that 
Eve  was  growing  restless. 

Downstairs  the  flotsam  of  the  forest  had  gathered  again : 
Mr.  Lyken  was  there  in  black  gloves;  the  Reverend  Laomi 
Smatter  had  arrived  in  a  sleigh  from  Ghost  Lake.  Both 
were  breakfasting  heavily. 

The  pretty,  sulky- faced  girl  fetched  a  tray  and  placed 
Eve's  breakfast  on  it;  and  Trooper  Stormont  carried  it  to 
her  room. 

She  was  awake  when  he  entered.  He  set  the  tray  on  the 
table.     She  put  both  arms  around  his  neck. 

"Jack,"  she  murmured,  her  eyes  tremulous  with  tears. 

"Everything  has  been  done,"  he  said.  "Will  you  be  ready 
by  eleven?     I'll  come  for  you." 

She  clung  to  him  in  silence  for  a  while. 

At  eleven  he  knocked  on  her  door.  She  opened  it.  She 
wore  her  black  wool  gown  and  a  black  fur  turban.     Some 


260  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

of  her  pallor  remained, — traces  of  tears  and  bluish  smears 
under  both  eyes.     But  her  voice  was  steady. 

"Could  I  see  Dad  a  moment  alone?" 

"Of  course." 

She  took  his  arm:  they  descended  the  stairs.  There 
seemed  to  be  many  people  about  but  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes 
until  her  lover  led  her  into  the  dance  hall  where  Clinch  lay 
smiling  his  mysterious  smile. 

Then  Stormont  left  her  alone  there  and  closed  the  door. 

In  a  terrific  snow-storm  they  buried  Mike  Clinch  on  the 
spot  he  had  selected,  in  order  that  he  might  keep  a  watchful 
eye  upon  the  trespassing  ghost  of  old  man  Harrod. 

It  blew  and  stormed  and  stormed,  and  the  thin,  nasal 
voice  of  "Rev.  Smatter"  was  utterly  lost  in  the  wind.  The 
slanting  lances  of  snow  drove  down  on  the  casket,  building 
a  white  mound  over  the  flowers,  blotting  the  hemlock  boughs 
from  sight. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  now ;  the  ground  was  freez- 
ing under  a  veering  and  bitter  wind  out  of  the  west.  Mr. 
Lyken's  talented  assistants  had  some  difficulty  in  shaping 
the  mound  which  snow  began  to  make  into  a  white  and  flaw- 
less monument. 

The  last  slap  of  the  spade  rang  with  a  metallic  jar  across 
the  lake,  where  snow  already  blotted  the  newly  forming 
film  of  ice;  the  human  denizens  of  the  wilderness  filtered 
back  into  it  one  by  one;  "Rev.  Smatter"  got  into  his  sleigh, 
plainly  concerned  about  the  road;  Mr.  Lyken  betrayed  un- 
professional haste  in  loading  his  wagon  with  his  talented 
assistants  and  starting  for  Ghost  Lake. 

A  Game  Protector  or  two  put  on  snow-shoes  when  they 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTER\^NES  261 

departed.    Trooper  Lannis  led  out  his  horse  and  Stormont's, 
and  got  into  the  saddle. 

"I'd  better  get  these  beasts  into  Ghost  Lake  while  I  can," 
he  said.     "You'll  follow  on  snow-shoes,  won't  you,  Jack?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  may  need  a  sleigh  for  Eve.  She  can't 
remain  here  all  alone.     I'll  telephone  the  Inn." 

Darragh,  in  blanket  outfit,  a  pair  of  snow-shoes  on  his 
back,  a  rifle  in  his  mittened  hand,  came  trudging  up  from 
the  lake.  He  and  Stormont  watched  Lannis  riding  away 
with  the  two  horses. 

"He'll  make  it  all  right,  but  it's  time  he  started,"  said  the 
latter. 

Darragh  nodded:  "Some  storm.  Where  is  Eve?" 

"In  her  room." 

"What  is  she  going  to  do.  Jack  ?" 

"Marry  me  as  soon  as  possible.  She  wants  to  stay  here 
for  a  few  days  but  I  can't  leave  her  here  alone.  I  think  I'll 
telephone  to  Ghost  Lake  for  a  sleigh." 

"Let  me  talk  to  her,"  said  Darragh  in  a  low  voice. 

"Do  you  think  you'd  better — at  such  a  time?" 

"I  think  it's  a  good  time.  It  will  divert  her  mind,  any- 
yray.    I  want  her  to  come  to  Harrod  Place." 

"She  won't,"  said  Stormont  grimly. 

"She  might.     Let  me  talk  to  her." 

"Do  you  realise  how  she  feels  toward  you,  Jim  ?" 

"I  do,  indeed.  And  I  don't  blame  her.  But  let  me  tell 
you ;  Eve  Strayer  is  the  most  honest  and  fair-minded  girl  I 
ever  knew.  .  .  .  Except  one.  .  .  .  I'll  take  a  chance  that 
she'll  listen  to  me.  .  .  .  Sooner  or  later  she  will  be  obliged 
to  hear  what  I  have  to  tell  her.  .  .  .  But  it  will  be  easier 


THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

for  her — for  everybody — if  I  speak  to  her  now.  Let  me 
try,  Jack." 

Stormont  hesitated,  looked  at  him,  nodded.  Darragh 
stood  his  rifle  against  the  bench  on  the  kitchen  porch.  They 
entered  the  house  slowly.  And  met  Eve  descending  the 
stairs. 

The  girl  looked  at  Darragh,  astonished,  then  her  pale  face 
flushed  with  anger. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  this  house?"  she  demanded  un- 
steadily.   "Have  you  no  decency,  no  shame?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  ashamed  of  what  my  kinsman  has 
done  to  you  and  yours.    That  is  partly  why  I  am  here." 

"You  came  here  as  a  spy,"  she  said  with  hot  contempt. 
"You  lied  about  your  name;  you  lied  about  your  purpose. 
You  came  here  to  betray  Dad!  If  he'd  known  it  he  would 
have  killed  you!" 

"Yes,  he  would  have.  But — do  you  know  why  I  came 
here.  Eve?" 

"I've  told  you!" 

"And  you  are  wrong.  I  didn't  come  here  to  betray  Mike 
Clinch :  I  came  to  save  him." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  believe  a  man  who  has  lied  to  Dad?" 
she  cried. 

"I  don't  ask  you  to,  Eve.  I  shall  let  somebody  else  prove 
what  I  say.  I  don't  blame  you  for  your  attitude.  God 
knows  I  don't  blame  Mike  Clinch.  He  stood  up  like  a  man 
to  Henry  Harrod.  .  .  .  All  I  ask  is  to  undo  some  of  the 
rotten  things  that  my  uncle  did  to  you  and  yours.  And  that 
is  partly  why  I  came  here." 

The  girl  said  passionately :  "Neither  Dad  nor  I  want  any- 
thing from  Harrod  Place  or  from  you!     Do  you  suppose 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTER\^NES  263 

you  can  come  here  after  Dad  is  dead  and  pretend  you  want 
to  make  amends  for  what  your  uncle  did  to  us?" 

"Eve,"  said  Darragh  gravely,  "I've  made  some  amends 
already.  You  don't  know  it,  but  I  have.  .  .  .  You  may  not 
believe  it,  but  I  liked  your  father.  He  was  a  real  man.  Had 
anybody  done  to  me  what  Henry  Harrod  did  to  your  father 
I'd  have  behaved  as  your  father  behaved;  I'd  never  have 
budged  from  this  spot;  I'd  have  hunted  where  I  chose;  I'd 
have  borne  an  implacable  hatred  against  Henry  Harrod 
and  Harrod  Place,  and  every  soul  in  it !" 

The  girl,  silenced,  looked  at  him  without  belief. 

He  said :  "I  am  not  surprised  that  you  distrust  what  I  say. 
But  the  man  you  are  going  to  marry  was  a  junior  officer 
in  my  command.  I  have  no  closer  friend  than  Jack  Stor- 
mont.    Ask  him  whether  I  am  to  be  believed." 

Astounded,  the  girl  turned  a  flushed,  incredulous  face 
to  Stormont. 

He  said :  "You  may  trust  Darragh  as  you  trust  me.  I 
don't  know  what  he  has  to  say  to  ^ou,  dear.  But  whatever 
he  says  will  be  the  truth." 

Darragh  said,  gravely:  "Through  a  misunderstanding 
your  father  came  into  possession  of  stolen  property.  Eve. 
He  did  not  know  it  had  been  stolen.  I  did.  But  Mike  Clinch 
would  not  have  believed  me  if  I  had  told  him  that  the  case 
of  jewels  in  his  possession  had  been  stolen  from  a  woman. 
.  .  .  Quintana  stole  them.  By  accident  they  came  into  your 
father's  possession.  I  learned  of  this.  I  had  promised  this 
woman  to  recover  her  jewels. 

"I  came  here  for  that  purpose.  Eve.  And  for  two  reasons : 
first,  because  I  learned  that  Quintana  also  was  coming  here 
to  rob  your  father  of  these  gems;  second,  because,  when  I 


264  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

knew  your  father,  and  knew  you,  I  concluded  that  it  would 
be  an  outrage  to  call  on  the  police.  It  would  mean  prison 
for  Clinch,  misery  and  ruin  for  you.  Eve.  So — I  tried  to 
steal  the  jewels  ...  to  save  you  both," 

He  looked  at  Stormont,  who  seemed  astonished. 

"To  whom  do  these  jewels  belong,  Jim?"  demanded  the 
trooper. 

"To  the  young  Grand  Duchess  of  Esthonia.  .  .  .  Do  you 
remember  that  I  befriended  her  over  there?" 

*'Yes." 

"Do  you  remember  that  the  Reds  were  accused  of  burn- 
ing her  chateau  and  looting  it?" 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Well,  it  was  Quintana  and  his  gang  of  international 
criminals  who  did  that,"  said  Darragh  drily. 

And,  to  Eve:  "By  accident  this  case  of  jewels,  em- 
blazoned with  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Grand  Duchess  of 
Esthonia,  came  into  your  father's  possession.  That  is  the 
story,  Eve." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  girl  looked  at  Stormont,  flushed 
painfully,  looked  at  Darragh. 

Then,  without  a  word,  she  turned,  ascended  the  stairs,  and 
reappeared  immediately  carrying  the  leather  case. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Darragh,"  she  said  simply;  and  laid  the 
case  in  his  hand. 

"But,"  said  Darragh,  "I  want  you  to  do  a  little  more.  Eve. 
The  owner  of  these  gems  is  my  guest  at  Harrod  Place.  I 
want  you  to  give  them  to  her  yourself." 

"I — I  can't  go  to  Harrod  Place,"  stammered  the  girl. 

"Please  don't  visit  the  sins  of  Henry  Harrod  on  me, 
Eve." 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES  265 

«I_don't.     But— but  that  place " 


After  a  silence:  "If  Eve  feels  that  way,"  began  Stor- 
mont  awkwardly,  "I  couldn't  become  associated  with  you  in 
business,  Jim " 

"I'd  rather  sell  Harrod  Place  than  lose  you!"  retorted 
Darragh  almost  sharply.  "I  want  to  go  into  business  with 
you.  Jack — if  Eve  will  permit  me " 

She  stood  looking  at  Stormont,  the  heightened  colour 
playing  in  her  cheeks  as  she  began  to  comprehend  the  com- 
radeship between  these  two  men. 

Slowly  she  turned  to  Darragh,  offered  her  hand : 

"I'll  go  to  Harrod  Place,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Darragh's  quick  smile  brightened  the  sombre  gravity  of 
his  face. 

"Eve,"  he  said,  "when  I  came  over  here  this  morning 
from  Harrod  Place  I  was  afraid  you  would  refuse  to  listen 
to  me;  I  was  afraid  you  would  not  even  see  me.  And  so  I 
brought  with  me — somebody — to  whom  I  felt  certain  you 
would  listen.  ...  I  brought  with  me  a  young  girl — a  poor 
refugee  from  Russia,  once  wealthy,  to-day  almost  penniless. 
,  .  .  Her  name  is  Theodorica.  .  .  .  Once  she  was  Grand 
Duchess  of  Esthonia.  .  .  .  But  this  morning  a  clergyman 
from  Five  Lakes  changed  her  name.  ...  To  such  friends 
as  you  and  Jack  she  is  Ricca  Darragh  now  .  .  .  and  she's 
having  a  wonderful  time  on  her  new  snow-shoes " 

He  took  Eve  by  one  hand  and  Stormont  by  the  other,  and 
drew  them  to  the  kitchen  door  and  kicked  it  open. 

Through  the  swirling  snow,  over  on  the  lake-slope  at  the 
timber  edge,  a  graceful,  boyish  figure  in  scarlet  and  white 
wool  moved  swiftly  over  the  drifts  with  all  the  naive  de- 
light of  a  child  with  a  brand  new  toy. 


266  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

As  Darragh  strode  out  into  the  open  the  distant  figure 
flung  up  one  arm  in  salutation  and  came  racing  over  the 
drifts,  her  brilliant  scarf  flying. 

All  aglow  and  a  trifle  breathless,  she  met  Darragh  just 
beyond  the  veranda,  rested  one  mittened  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der while  he  knelt  and  unbuckled  her  snow-shoes,  stepped 
lightly  from  them  and  came  forward  to  Eve  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  a  sudden  winning  gravity  in  her  lovely 
face. 

"We  shall  be  friends,  surely,"  she  said  in  her  quick,  win- 
ning voice; — "because  my  husband  has  told  me — and  I  am 
so  grieved  for  you — and  I  need  a  girl  friend " 

Holding  both  Eve's  hands,  her  mittens  dangling  from  her 
wrist,  she  looked  into  her  eyes  very  steadily. 

Slowly  Eve's  eyes  filled;  more  slowly  still  Ricca  kissed 
her  on  both  cheeks,  framed  her  face  in  both  hands,  kissed 
her  lightly  on  the  lips. 

Then,  still  holding  Eve's  hands,  she  turned  and  looked  at 
Stormont. 

"I  remember  you  now,"  she  said.  "You  were  with  my 
husband  in  Riga." 

She  freed  her  right  hand  and  held  it  out  to  Stormont. 
He  had  the  grace  to  kiss  it  and  did  it  very  well  for  a  Yankee. 

Together  they  entered  the  kitchen  door  and  turned  into 
the  dining  room  on  the  left,  where  were  chairs  around  the 
plain  pine  table. 

Darragh  said:  "The  new  mistress  of  Harrod  Place  has 
selected  your  quarters.  Eve.  They  adjoin  the  quarters  of 
her  friend,  the  Countess  Orloff-Strelwitz." 

"Valentine  begged  me,"  said  Ricca,  smiling.  "She  is 
going  to  be  lonely  without  me.    All  hours  of  day  and  night 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES  267 

we  were  trotting  into  one  another's  rooms "    She  looked 

gravely  at  Eve :  "You  will  like  Valentine ;  and  she  will  like 
you  very  much.  .  .  .  As  for  me — I  already  love  you." 

She  put  one  arm  around  Eve's  shoulders :  "How  could 
you  even  think  of  remaining  here  all  alone  ?  Why,  I  should 
never  close  my  eyes  for  thinking  of  you,  dear." 

Eve's  head  drooped ;  she  said  in  a  stifled  voice :  "I'll  go 
with  you.  ...  I  want  to.  .  .  .  I'm  very — tired." 

"We  had  better  go  now,"  said  Darragh.  "Your  things 
can  be  brought  over  later.  If  you'll  dress  for  snow-shoeing, 
Jack  can  pack  what  clothes  you  need.  .  .  .  Are  there  snow- 
shoes  for  him,  too?" 

Eve  turned  tragically  to  her  lover :  "In  Dad's  closet '* 

she  said,  choking;  then  turned  and  went  up  the  stairs,  still 
clinging  to  Ricca's  hand  and  drawing  her  with  her. 

Stormont  followed,  entered  Clinch's  quarters,  and  pres- 
ently came  downstairs  again,  carrying  Clinch's  snow-shoes 
and  a  basket  pack. 

He  seated  himself  near  Darragh.  After  a  silence :  "Your 
wife  is  beautiful,  Jim.  .  .  .  Her  character  seems  to  be  even 
more  beautiful.  .  .  .  She's  like  God's  own  messenger  to 
Eve.  .  .  .  And — you're  rather  wonderful  yourself " 

"Nonsense,"  said  Darragh,  "I've  given  my  wife  her  first 
American  friend  and  I've  done  a  shrewd  stroke  of  business 
in  nabbing  the  best  business  associate  I  ever  heard  of '* 

"You're  crazy  but  kind.  ...  I  hope  I'll  be  some  good. 
-  .  .  One  thing;  I'll  never  get  over  what  you've  done  for 
Eve  in  this  crisis " 

"There'll  be  no  crisis,  Jack.  Marry,  and  hook  up  with  me 
in  business.  That  solves  everything.  .  .  .  Lord! — what  a 
life  Eve  has  had !    But  you'll  make  it  all  up  to  her  ...  all 


268  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

this  loneliness  and  shame  and  misery  of  Clinch's  Dump—" 

Stormont  touched  his  arm  in  caution  :  Eve  and  Ricca  came 
down  the  stairs — the  former  now  in  the  grey  wool  snow- 
shoe  dress,  and  carrying  her  snow-shoes,  black  gown,  and 
toilet  articles. 

Stormont  began  to  stow  away  her  effects  in  the  basket 
pack ;  Darragh  went  over  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"Fm  so  glad  we  are  to  be  friends,"  he  said.  "It  hurt  a 
lot  to  know  you  held  me  in  contempt.  But  I  had  to  go  about 
it  that  way." 

Eve  nodded.  Then,  suddenly  recollecting :  "Oh,"  she  ex- 
claimed, reddening,  "I  forgot  the  jewel  case !  It's  under  my 
pillow " 

She  turned  and  sped  upstairs  and  reappeared  almost  in- 
stantly, carrying  the  jewel-case. 

Breathless,  flushed,  thankful  and  happy  in  the  excitement 
of  restitution,  she  placed  the  leather  case  in  Ricca' s  hands. 

"My  jewels!"  cried  the  girl,  astounded.  Then,  with  a  lit- 
tle cry  of  delight,  she  placed  the  case  upon  the  table,  stripped 
open  the  emblazoned  cover,  and  emptied  the  two  trays.  All 
over  the  table  rolled  the  jewels,  flashing,  scintillating,  ablaze 
with  blinding  light. 

And  at  the  same  instant  the  outer  door  crashed  open  and 
Quintana  covered  them  with  Darragh's  rifle. 

"Now,  by  Christ!"  he  shouted,  "who  stirs  a  finger  shall 
go  to  God  in  one  jump!  You,  my  gendarme  frien' — you, 
my  frien'  Smith — turn  your  damn  backs — ban's  up  high! 
— tha's  the  way ! — now,  ladies ! — ^back  away  there — get  back 
or  I  kill  I — sure,  by  Jesus,  I  kill  you  like  I  would  some  white 
little  mice! " 

^Vith  incredible  quickness  he  stepped  forward  and  swept 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES  269 

the  jewels  into  one  hand — filled  the  pocket  of  his  trousers, 
caught  up  every  stray  stone  and  pocketed  them. 

"You  gendarme,"  he  cried  in  a  menacing  voice,  "you  think 
you  shall  follow  in  my  track.  Yes?  I  blow  your  damn 
head  off  if  you  stir  before  the  hour.  .  .  .  After  that — well, 
follow  and  be  damn !" 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  stepped  outside  and  slammed  the 
door;  and  Darragh  and  Stormont  leaped  for  it.  Then  the 
loud  detonation  of  Quintana's  rifle  was  echoed  by  the  splin- 
tering rip  of  bullets  tearing  through  the  closed  door;  and* 
both  men  halted  in  the  face  of  the  leaden  hail. 

Eve  ran  to  the  pantry  window  and  saw  Quintana  in  some- 
body's stolen  lumber-sledge,  lash  a  big  pair  of  horses  to  ai 
gallop  and  go  floundering  past  into  the  Ghost  Lake  road. 

As  he  sped  by  in  a  whirl  of  snow  he  fired  five  times  at 
the  house,  then,  rising  and  swinging  his  whip,  he  flogged 
the  frantic  horses  into  the  woods. 

In  the  dining  room,  Stormont,  red  with  rage  and  shame, 
and  having  found  his  rifle  in  the  corridor  outside  Eve's 
bedroom,  was  trying  to  open  the  shutters  for  a  shot;  and 
Darragh,  empty-handed,  searched  the  house  frantically  for 
a  weapon. 

Eve,  terribly  excited,  came  from  the  pantry : 

"He's  gone!"  she  cried  furiously.  "He's  in  somebody's 
lumber-sledge  with  a  pair  of  horses  and  he's  driving  west 
like  the  devil !" 

Stormont  ran  to  the  tap-room  telephone,  cranked  it,  and 
yarned  the  constabulary  at  Five  Lakes. 

"Good  God !"  he  exclaimed,  turning  to  Darragh,  scarlet 
with   mortification,    "what   a   ghastly   business!    I   never 


270  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

dreamed  he  was  within  miles  of  CHnch's!  It's  the  most 
shameful  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me " 

"What  could  anybody  do  under  that  rifle?"  said  Eve 
hotly.  "That  beast  would  have  murdered  the  first  person 
who  stirred!" 

Darragh,  exasperated  and  dreadfully  humiliated,  looked 
miserably  at  his  brand-new  wife. 

Eve  and  Stormont  also  looked  at  her.  She  had  come  for- 
ward from  the  rear  of  the  stairway  where  Quintana  had 
brutally  driven  her.  Now  she  stood  with  one  hand  on  the 
empty  leather  jewel  case,  looking  at  everybody  out  of  pretty, 
bewildered  eyes. 

To  Darragh,  in  a  perplexed,  unsteady  voice:  "Is  it  the 
same  bandit  who  robbed  us  before?" 

"Yes;  Quintana,"  he  said  wretchedly.  Rage  began  to 
redden  his  features.  "Ricca,"  he  said,  "I  promised  I'd  find 
your  jewels.  ...  I  promise  you  again  that  I'll  never  drop 
this  business  until  your  gems — and  the  Flaming  Jewel — 
are  in  your  possession " 

"But,  Jim " 

"I  swear  it!"  he  exclaimed  violently.  "I'm  not  such  a 
stupid  fool  as  I  seem " 

"Dear !"  she  protested  excitedly,  "you  haz>e  done  what  you 
promised.     My  gems  are  in  my  possession — I  believe " 

She  caught  up  the  emblazoned  case,  stripped  out  the  first 
tray,  then  the  second,  and  flung  them  aside.  Then,  search- 
ing with  the  delicate  tip  of  her  forefinger  in  the  empty  case, 
she  suddenly  pressed  the  bottom  hard, — thumb,  middle 
finger  and  little  finger  forming  the  three  apexes  of  an  equi- 
lateral triangle. 

There  came  a  clear,  tiny  sound  l.ike  the  ringing  of  the 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES  271 

alarm  in  a  repeating  watch.  Very  gently  the  false  bottom  of 
the  case  detached  itself  and  came  away  in  the  palm  of  her 
hand. 

And  there,  each  embedded  in  its  own  shaped  compartment 
of  chamois,  lay  the  Esthonian  jewels — the  true  ones — deep 
hidden,  always  doubly  guarded  by  two  sets  of  perfect  imita- 
tions lining  the  two  visible  trays  above. 

And,  in  the  centre,  blazed  the  Erosite  gem — the  magnifi- 
cent Flaming  Jewel,  a  glory  of  living,  blinding  fire. 

Nobody  stirred  or  spoke.  Darragh  blinked  at  the  crystal- 
line blaze  as  though  stunned. 

Then  the  young  girl  who  had  once  been  Her  Serene  High- 
ness Theodorica,  Grand  Duchess  of  Esthonia,  looked  up  at 
her  brand-new  husband  and  laughed. 

"Did  you  really  suppose  it  was  these  that  brought  me 
across  the  ocean?  Did  you  suppose  it  was  a  passion  for 
these  that  filled  my  heart?  Did  you  think  it  was  for  these 
that  I  followed  you?" 

She  laughed  again,  turned  to  Eve: 

"You  understand.  Tell  him  that  if  he  had  been  in  rags 
I  would  have  followed  him  like  a  gypsy.  .  .  .  They  say- 
there  is  gypsy  blood  in  us.  .  .  .  God  knows.  ...  I  think 

perhaps  there  is  a  little  of  it  in  all  real  women "     Still 

laughing  she  placed  her  hand  lightly  upon  her  heart — "In 
all  women — perhaps — a  Flaming  Jewel  imbedded  here '* 

Her  eyes,  tender  and  mocking,  met  his;  she  lifted  the 
jewel-case,  closed  it,  and  placed  it  in  his  hands. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "you  have  everything  in  your  posses- 
sion; and  we  are  safe — we  are  quite  safe,  now,  my  jewels 
and  I." 


272  THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

Then  she  went  to  Eve  and  rested  both  hands  on  her 
shoulders. 

"Shall  we  put  on  our  snow-shoes  and  go — home?" 

Stormont  flung  open  the  bullet-splintered  door.  Outside 
in  the  snow  he  dropped  on  both  knees  to  buckle  on  Eve's 
5now-shoes. 

Darragh  was  performing  a  like  office  for  his  wife,  and 
the  State  Trooper,  being  unobserved,  took  Eve's  slim  hands 
and  kissed  them,  looking  up  at  her  where  he  was  kneeling. 

Her  pale  face  blushed  as  it  had  that  day  in  the  woods  on 
Owl  Marsh,  so  long,  so  long  ago,  when  this  man's  lips  first 
touched  her  hands. 

As  their  eyes  met  both  remembered.  Then  she  smiled  at 
her  lover  with  the  shy  girl's  soul  of  her  gazing  out  at  him 
through  eyes  as  blue  as  the  wild  blind-gentians  that  grow; 
among  the  ferns  and  mosses  of  Star  Pond. 

Far  away  in  the  northwestern  forests  Quintana  still  lashed 
his  horses  through  the  primeval  pines. 

Triumphant,  reckless,  resourceful,  dangerous,  he  felt  that 
now  nothing  could  stop  him,  nothing  bar  his  way  to  free- 
dom. 

Out  of  the  wilderness  lay  his  road  and  his  destiny ;  out  of 
it  he  must  win  his  way,  by  strategy,  by  cunning,  by  violence 
^-creep  out,  lie  his  way  out,  shoot  his  way  out — it  scarcely 
mattered.  He  was  going  out!  He  was  going  back  to  life 
once  more.  Who  could  forbid  him  ?  Who  stop  him  ?  Who 
deny  him,  now,  when,  in  his  pockets,  he  held  all  that  was 
worth  living  for — the  keys  to  power,  to  pleasure, — the  key 
to  everything  on  earth ! 


HER  HIGHNESS  INTERVENES  273 

In  fierce  exultation  he  slapped  the  glass  jewels  in  his 
pocket  and  laughed  aloud. 

"The  keys  to  the  world !"  he  cried.  "Let  him  stop  me  and 
take  them  who  is  a  better  man  than  I !"  Then  his  long  whip 
whistled  and  he  cursed  his  horses. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  close  by  in  the  snowy  road  ahead,  he 
saw  a  State  Trooper  on  snow-shoes, — saw  the  upflung  arm 
warning  him — screamed  curses  at  his  horses,  flogged  them 
forward  to  crush  this  thing  to  death  that  dared  menace  him 
— this  object  that  suddenly  rose  up  out  of  nowhere  to  snatch 
from  him  the  keys  of  the  world 

For  a  moment  the  State  Trooper  looked  after  the  runaway 
horses.  There  was  no  use  following;  they'd  have  to  run  till 
they  dropped. 

Then  he  lowered  the  levelled  rifle  from  his  shoulder, 
looked  grimly  at  the  limp  thing  which  had  tumbled  from 
the  sledge  into  the  snowy  road  and  which  sprawled  there 
crimsoning  the  spotless  flakes  that  fell  upon  it. 


THE  END 


1   I  .1 


f    ^    ViH 


t   V    J  ^  ^„ figs'    |^«^^^„ 


'f~'-A 


